windows

I can't just write you a poem.
It isn't a snap-of-the-finger reaction.
"write about that," you say,
"write about the window".
Write about a window?
That's not something I can do.
I can't wax poetic about those panes of glass
that mean nothing to me.
I could tell you that it's a nice window.
I could tell you that I've seen a window like that before.
I was at a Synagogue-
don't ask me why
it truly has nothing to do with the story-
and as I was sitting there,
looking straight ahead,
I saw the windows
a full wall of windows.
Each panel was eight by two
and I thought how interesting it was
that in a house of God
the windows -
with their sixteen panes each
forced anyone who looked through them
to at least attempt to see things from a different perspective.
It was nearly impossible
though I'm not sure,
I didn't try
to see the whole picture
the whole front lawn,
stairs,
and trees,
and parking lot
from one individual pane.
I could tell you about that.
That wouldn't be too hard
or too terrible.
But I can't just write you a poem about a window.

preferences

and you laughed at me
that I didn't like egg whites
because of the texture
because of the taste
"so a fried egg is out of the question, then?"
"yes. yes, it is."
"then I'll make pancakes instead."
but we fell back into bed
while the coffee was brewing
and I drove back to my place
on an empty stomach.

wait

she was weathered -
grown older since the last time
in her face,
about her eyes
and mouth-
there was something there
and something not there
that had not been and had been there before.
there was still the "I know better"
and "I can handle this myself"
that I had seen already
and only half-believed
but there was something small and trembling
something coy and scared
that she had only once waved her hand at
and smiled away
before she walked away
and walked away
until she'd walked the earth
and come back to me.

marriage

Oh, what useless things are we-
wasted tools
with rusted parts-
what empty, foul, and ugly forms we take.
Our jagged edges,
broken pieces,
missing, loose, and crumpled parts-
once were new and never meant to break.
But doubt and anger
fear and hatred-
lies and lies and lies and tears
wore away the beauty and the care.
And after one too many drinks
and arguments - and unsaid love
we striped away the good
that once was there.

romance

Stories.
She told me stories.
She told me about snow
and rain
and made them real to me
though I had seen
and felt
and tasted
all of it before.
She told me stories
and she spoke to me
she said everything
and I waited
for my cue
to tell her my own.
Stories.
Ever stories.
More and more stories.
The woman who told me
told me stories.

note

I want to be
what you want me to be
so long as it's lasting
as long as it lasts.