I’m still waiting
for a white pristine
invitation that never
arrives
I’m still looking
for a dress that’s
long been shredded
I’m still tapping
my foot waiting
for the music
but the orchestra
is out on a bender.
Welcome to the strange
side of town, this is where
I’m from.
Once you live here
long enough it doesn’t
seem so odd anymore.
That’s how it is — abnormal
becomes the new normal.
I tie a string
around my finger
I tie a rope
around my arm
big and small
reminders.
This is a sad rite
for the person I used
to be, the words
I used to worry over,
This is a beautiful
release so that my
fingers can stretch
to explore a new
earth and identity.
I carry a gift
they do not want.
I offer it and they scoff.
I write
while they look on
with rolling eyes
faces full of disdain.
A best selling author sells
best in our railway stations
when you waiting for the train
and the heat gives you blasts
of hot air which you want to fight with fists, then water and
sleep. And as you lie on the bunk you open the pages and understand why novels or fiction are best sellers.
The electronic bee
sits on the petals
attempting to pollinate
but simply not
programmed that way.
Only you will recall that thunder
as the swan song came
a trifle late
and buried under books
I, a trifle hesitant, wrote a poem
or letter, I cannot recall.
I wrote a poem
about you, little
girl.
With your smile
that says leave
me alone.
With your expression
that says I am
over this.
Someday you will
become a woman
and know
the errors
of all these ways.
Amazing
how quickly
I revert
to the old
patterns
how quickly
I sound like
I did a year
ago
I want to be
more
than an empty
persona.