Sunday, September 3rd, 2006

Lost Boys

Every so often,

As I race ahead,

She catches my shoulder

With a warm hand,

Nostalgia,

And I can't help

But turn.

I look for you then,

You lost boys from the time

I was forbidden

To cross the street alone

And when a moving truck

Meant the absolute end of us

Despite blood promises.

You and so many more

From chance meetings

Over a desk, a pew,

Or peeking from cubicles,

Circumstances I recall

Always will less color

Than goodbyes,

Though drawn out

Over the ambling years

Until a new phone number,

A new apartment,

A new wife, a new life

Breaks the chain for good

And I'm left to look

Into memory for you,

And find with you there,

The boy I used to be,

Grew out of,

And moved away forever from--

That lost boy

That makes me

More than a little glad

We've all moved on.

Monday, September 4th

Questions for Saturday

We're invited,

Ceri and I,

For wine and cheese

On Saturday.

And it's open,

This week or the next,

Or both, whatever.

It's a regular thing.

Bottles with lovely labels

And sometimes

Lovely rich red and gold flavors,

But most a mere pleasant,

With their dress a consolation

To the wistful vintners' wish,

But pleasant is enough.

We bring a bottle with us,

Saved since the evening

I bought two for dinner:

One expensive, one plain,

A backup

In case the first was wrong.

And which one we corked

And which was saved

I don't recall,

And out hosts don't care

But for the thought

Of sharing with them

The passing of the day.

A passing they spend

In a stranded splendor,

A form of fine simplicity

In devotion to Judaic law,

Of which I know

Nearly nothing

But that on this day

No work is done,

Food is prepared

The day before,

And they may not

Use their car.

So we go to them,

Though it worries me

That we've crossed town

At their request,

So making them complicit

In our disregard.

It makes me want to ask

Silly questions, really.

Like, can you ride the bus

If you already have a pass?

Turn a light on or off?

Answer a riddle?

Questions as silly as these?

Tuesday, September 5th

Frozen

It begins in the freezer aisle:

Frost forming like panic

On the heavy door,

The heavy handle slipping away,

Door bouncing hard

On its seals,

The smack and thud

Sounding off in my ears.

And in my chest,

A tightness is rising,

Ignored as I press

Stumbling to the front,

Thick minded,

Half blinded

By the singular need

To just get home.

I'm sweating, rocking,

As each bumbling shopper

Fumbles her cart inside out.

I'm queasy as the red meats

Sluice into the scanner.

I'm leaning on my cart,

Wobbly as the wheels.

But when my turn comes

I'm all business,

Turning white and cold,

Thinking of that freezer,

That door,

The hard floor

Like that of a hospital,

The wheels of the cart

Like those of a gurney.

I forget my change.

I forget my parking place.

I forget the world.

Next, we are racing time

As every second

The damage deepens.

Screaming along,

Turning sharp,

Calling ahead,

I still see that freezer.

Jarring halt,

Hauled out,

Storming reception,

And in we go

To the ready kitchen,

Freezer open.

Another close call

For the ice cream ambulance.

Wednesday, September 6th

Walking Without Direction

Where to?

An ebony ocean

Under the missing moon,

The shuft of sand underfoot

Drown by the sizzle and hush

Of foam folded onto itself

In the shallow strange?

Or to its kin,

The bleached plain

Shaking in the angry air,

The shuft of sand underfoot

Mocking each anxious breath

And the heart's terrible labor?

Why not both?

Here in the halls of man,

The tides of industry,

The plains of academy,

Folding imagination into memory,

The shuft of sand underfoot

Giving way to too much that is harder,

Too much that leads

Simply nowhere.

Thursday, September 7th

Kicking Myself

I wish there was

An invisible hand

Holding me back.

Something to take

This hesitation

From my shoulders.

Something irresistible

To blame,

To rail against

And settle back upon.

But this humble ground

With no sign of rubble,

No hurdle or wall,

Is just as far

From inviting,

When aiming ahead

I am tripped,

Not by a great hand

Or foot, but always over

My own rolling head.

Friday, September 8th

Looking

It is there, always,

Where a chance flutter

Of high, broad leaves

Conspires to dapple

A certain bloom,

Which only for this

Is singular

And catches like a thorn

In memory

And like a fire

Throughout the day,

Shining and solid,

One unremarkable thing

Elected, celebrated,

That the inner eye,

Having followed

The flight of the flesh,

Wandering, returns again

With only the mind

Between the play of light

And the flash

Of remembrance,

It is there, always,

Looking.

Saturday, September 9th

Like Breathing

Think of each breath.

Lead it like a lion on a leash.

Say to it, "Come here,"

And then wait,

Hiding anticipation

While it fails to obey.

Command it again,

As if it was given,

As if there was no fear.

In. Breath in.

And feel it give

With a reluctance

That belies reason.

There is no ease,

No patience, no safety.

Out. Breath out.

And the whole while

Long for in again,

Too ready for reverse.

Think of it even

As you try to sleep.

And wake up breathless,

The lion on your chest,

Whenever you forget to dream

Of how easy it should be.