POEM ABOUT ITEM
There is a point at which it
the air bottled up like a bad week at work
just waiting to lash out at the world.
And we assume that it means nothing the
way it expands and contracts like a heartbeat
pumping life and smiles to all those participants.
If you stop and listen to its sounds,
a sound that whispers to you the answer
at parties and carnivals and fairs.
He is fun to play with.
ABOUT MYSELF NOW
I no longer smile for fun.
My face, rough like a carpenters sand block curls only with a kickstart
or with the occasional sit down with J & B. It is not enough to help
my Dad with the car or my Mom with the garden, or take a trop to the mall
with friends. My experience but weary face ends the story of before and
begins the story of now. To tell you I am not happy is a lie. To tell
you I am not lucky is a lie. To tell you that I regret is a lie. To be
truthful to myself, I must one day lift saggy wrinkles upon the presence
of nothingness and let the music guide me home.