Fowl Paradise
Adolescent ducks
scrounge for scraps, tussling
over half-eaten crusts that rain
from grubby hands like manna
from above, a never-ending feast.
Adolescent ducks
scrounge for scraps, tussling
over half-eaten crusts that rain
from grubby hands like manna
from above, a never-ending feast.
After a haircut, I feel like a shorn lamb.
Air on the nape of my neck
and I’m trying to be positive again.
I’m old enough now to have places I go
regular enough, people who know my face.
The clouds swing down and stay there
most of the day. The rain has driven
the birds from the oak. But it’s drying.
Driving home in the dark after an evening
watching the kids’ theatre camp play,
my son says he’s going to fall asleep.
“Just hold on. We’re almost home,”I say,
“I can’t carry you in anymore.”
“Yeah, it’s just part of growing up,” he replies.
“I remember pretending to be asleep,
so I could get carried to bed,” my daughter adds.
“Those were the days,” sighs my son.
I grip my steering wheel and nod to the night.
Appearing much has changed
like the depth shown from my smile
Takes approved authenticity
and
Takes more and more to release
Ah, yes.
Ascertain they’re like the rest
Ah, rest…
Speaking of, what the hell’s that?
Ah, rest…
Another fulfilling pour?
Ah, indeed…
I think I will have some more.
I think of your brown curls intertwined in my fingers
Your big smile right before our lips meet
The way you laugh at my stupid jokes
How you sing the song out of tune on purpose
And how when you hug me you sway back forth just a little bit
I crave being around you
Listening to you tell me about the most minuscule parts of your day
The way you don’t break eye contact
And how you talk with your hands
I’m not sure how I’ll ever get you out of my mind
And maybe I won’t,
Maybe I’ll smile when something reminds me of you
Maybe I’ll sing the song out of tune by myself
Maybe I’ll cry when I’m lying in bed with no one to talk to
Maybe I’ll learn how to deal with missing you
Maybe I’ll just live with it
Staying up late
To prep for a party
I’ll probably hate.
But that’s always my problem.
Being a fucking pessimist.
I created this.
I planned it,
Down to the last minor detail.
There’s hope somewhere that I can enjoy myself,
But I think I lost it.
Since I’ve moved away from my hometown,
everytime I return it’s like
reliving flashes of life.
But just the darker times,
just the foreshadows,
memories link,
weaving through
my time
line.
I transplanted chrysanthemums today.
Gerbera. Gladiolus.
Potted, they sit in our sunroom,
waiting while we decide
where to plant them for good.
Outdoors, along the stone wall,
I pulled up ropes of grapeleaf
clinging to the ivy, gripping
a nearby redbud, and tossed
those tentacles to a waste can.
It’s a little like playing God,
I think, ordaining which plants
shall live and which shall die.
If I’m lucky, this lesson
will keep me humble.
Sleep, let me go.
Stop seducing me
into your bed.
Sleep, let me go.
I want to be awake
for my life,
imperfect as it is.
Sleep, let me go.
It’s been a nice
love affair
but I want to return
to my life.
I’m not your Persephone.
Our season is over.
Sleep, let me go.
I want to create,
not hibernate.
Sleep, let me go.
I am tired
(not for you)
of being your zombie.
Sleep, let me go.
i want my mornings
and afternoons
back.
Sleep, let me go.
Sleep, let me be.
