You think you matter?
You think you make a difference?
You think
anybody
really
care about you?
The street
don’t care.
About nobody.
You can try
to get yours,
but it gets
you
in the end.
No way you
getting out.
You as stuck here
as me,
but,
there is one thing
different
about us:
You think
good people
are out there,
on the street.
I know the truth:
we all
nothing
but
bags
of blood
and bone,
and
–for some of us–
a survival instinct.
i am like
a rubik’s cube.
ever-changing.
ever-challenging.
and no matter
my formation
…
you still don’t
like my colors.
Are you one of them?
You’re not wearing the red hat
but maybe you are in your mind.
Working class Johanns
strudel-making house fraus
opportunistic industrialists
everyone loves a lynch mob
a bratwurst, a beer, and a war
to make Germany great again.
Always apples in the house,
trusty as the lip of a cast iron skillet.
I took a Fuji with me to college.
Few years later, carved a face
on the side of a Red Delicious.
Even the kids thought it strange
to put a dried up old lady
on the window sill.
Midlife, nothing weighs down
a brown bag lunch
like a Gala from the heap.
Yep, doesn’t hurt me one bit
to peel and dice three/four Melrose
and mingle with a stray Lodi
in a Kentucky Apple Cake.
Sure sign. Red Flag. Standard bearer.
The old gym never looked better.
In years past, the aged school building
reminded me of a sinking battleship,
going down for the final time.
Now it serves as a community center,
a place for gatherings and celebrations.
No longer propelling upstream, but floating
at a leisurely pace, like a cruise ship.
Isn’t this how we’d like to celebrate life
in our golden years?
