Poetry

But no one writes poetry anymore! you say. Hah! Turns out I do.


This Window is Closed!

Sorry we missed you!

We’re not accepting

anymore thoughts at this time.

Please call again!

You may beat your wings

and twitter in bitter frustration

click your tongues

pace on the sill

and stare if you want,

one side-eye pressed against the dirty glass.

I’m drawing the shades.

We open again at nine!

You can try again then.


Christmas Stockings

It’s odd.

Laying down in stockings

rustling, secretive legs

brushing the upholstery,

insinuating around the edges of an inappropriately casual,

pilled blanket.

Background TV sounds cheerfully ignore that it’s daytime

that it’s a weekday.

It’s no time and no place.

Nobody outside, walking back from lunch hour.

No newspapers around,

no news.

Just bits of paper, dirty plates,

tedious shows you’ll watch anyway,

digesting like pythons.

Even talking’s an effort.


 

Third Eye

The bus

Farts and chugs, heaves and sighs.

Grumbles, builds pressure in my ears.

 

I reach to rub my neck. Try

to rearrange my face,

smooth it out

soften a deepening worry wrinkle that’s appeared

right between my eyes.

My third eye, according to my yoga instructor.

Third eye indeed.

That exhibit appears to be permanently closed.

 

I shut all my eyes, the regular two

and invisible third.

In a small room just behind that tiny crack

I hurtle my head backwards,

howl as loudly as I can, let the sound gush forth,

tears streaming down my face

from the guttural, animal release.


Flashbulb

I walk here twice each day

clip past the homeless in their little side-car of land

imagining themselves

on a romantic, urban camping getaway.

Filthy sleeping bags spread on dirt.

Unable to imagine:

walls;

coffee;

hand soap;

head-fogging tedium;

pension and benefits.

They will never have a mortgage.

In their minds they own this passage.

 

My heels click smartly around their litter.

We ignore each other, avoid eye-contact, continue to never-mind.

Me–their underwear, drying in the sun, their skinny dogs with mean, broad heads.

Them–my too-cheerful summer wear,

my inability to stay young.

 

A light-bulb flash and stomach-flipping roll of thunder

makes hair stand on necks, washed and not

makes hands tighten on leashes

heels step swiftly two lengths over.

No need to be frightened, it’s just that

the dogs seem like they could bite today.

 

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