loco

When I was a child
I remember a plastic toy train
that I dragged around the house
by a string.
a string my father would tie and retie
when the fibers got tired and gave out
and I would cry because I didn't want to push it across the floor
I wanted to pull it behind me
drag the primary-colored locomotive
round the first floor in an endless loop-
kitchen, living room, dining room, kitchen...
and on and on.

I remember that train.
And now that you're here,
or rather, there
never here
because you're too busy,
you can't get away
something else has come up
and you're needed-
I feel sorry for that toy.
It must have been so tedious
to travel behind a child
for hours
for years
just waiting to be set aside
or broken
or given away to follow another child
and the child that followed.

And then I have to check,
just the make sure
that I'm not on a string.

Death and coffee

I sit here, comfortable, caffeinated, exhausted
channeling the woman that once was - the woman I want to be
trying in vain to write something down
beyond the do-re-mi-fa-so and so on of all my other work-
pieces I rehash and rearrange until they become boring and I change keys-
waiting for something to write itself
while its cold and warm and cold again
and I stare at the far wall,
rehearsing old, half-forgotten tap sequences in my head
searching for the hole in the lid of the cup with my tongue
so my eyes can remain happily out of focus,
careful not to drip coffee on the blouse that I bought in a rush
before I realized it's just like the ones she used to wear
and that made me smile-
that I did it without effort or thought-
and I wonder if tonight is the night I just fall asleep
or if it will be tomorrow night
until it all tapers off and I go numb again
until I'm not anymore
and the blouse stops making me smile.

capitalism

Oh, industry.
ever onward
to the money
to the money
to the ever-dwindling bank account
the copper and the coinage
the machine
the gear
the switch
on off
on off
on
always on
pushing
pressing
grinding
crushing the few who volunteer
to sacrifice their souls to the turning
the cog and the wheel
to the hilt
to the top
to the hill
to the tree
to cut it down and build up past the sky
all of it piled high
so carefully
always a heartbeat away from crumbling down
built up on a foundation of melted pennies
and broken bones.
Oh, industry.

circles

I am sure of very little.
The Earth goes 'round the sun,
the leaves turn red in Autumn,
people live their lives the way they choose.
Those choices are unclear
and yet impact my day to day existence
where all I can be sure of
is I need to get my boots re-soled.

I stay up later than I used to,
later than I should
and whisper things that I have said
a million times before to myself
because I'm the one who listens to it.
I'm the one who rearranges
those words that eventually sound natural
and make sense
or at least don't bang into each other and fall over my teeth
onto the floor.

I think out turn-by-turn directions
to un-had conversations that might someday grace my ears
and make me quiver, smile, or cry.
But until those words are spoken
and I know what she is looking for
I only know the little that I know
my shoes need new soles.