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.

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.