Dreaming of Tuesday’s Parties

Dreaming of Tuesday’s

parties, glorious rippling

colors, all manner of

food and gaiety, strangers with

strange stories, big ridiculous hats,

cacophony of singing,

and drunkenness, lots of it

spinning, hours disappearing

under the weight of the night

and slow dancing whispers,

all versions of us

unwilling to believe in a

dawning Wednesday.

Week 2 of Furlough Begins

Time and its relativity are clear now.

The animals and I keep a same schedule, and like them,

I believe I still matter. Hours are meaningful

Although they carry no cash.

 

Instead of colleagues, I converse with a cold front.

Clouds dash by at a pace I

Don’t know. Underneath, fears lap like

a flooding creek. I let them go;

tossing pieces of grass with gravity.

 

Time is stretched by gratitude.

I no longer rush. Let’s throw a ball

for the dog. I choose my adventures and

look up when I like.

There is space to expand and contract. To be.

We are now our own universe.

 

Tomorrow, a concept, just out of reach.

from pupil to widening pupil

and the wolf man looks in my direction and
we share a conversation through our eyes
the way it is when you have oceans to cross
before morning the way light takes its sweet time
from pupil to widening pupil and i know you’re
with her but the possibilities linger like so many
silent proclamations of could it be that love comes
in so many ways? could it be that we in another time
would have been queen and king of this rotten
bar this rotten dirt patch that clings to our rooted feet……

peculiar smiles and ducks nap at 3pm

on certain days that circle twice and curl up
like a cat (or the corners of your peculiar smile)
i believe i’m the only one who sees how ducks
take naps at 3pm, or how the hairs on your arms
taunt the breeze of a trepidatious day.

on certain days that lay over like ferns in a
softly wooded cashmere forest i believe
the world can have magnetic poles capable of
keeping us straight and narrow, but only if we choose
to ignore the way the auroras confound the sky.

like pea soup

I feel like I’m dying in these fog filled mornings,
that one orange streetlight a fuzzy eyesore and my mind is buzzing
with the lack of memories.

Somewhere in the daze of the morning drive, listening to the song
the same I heard before I left you last night. The last time
lingering your scent

it freely dances across my sweater and into my nose

Could we go back there and figure things out? I think
the heavy rain makes a beautiful sound when it hits the glass
and slides on down;

I think we might have a chance if we could only take home
the hazy clouds, lay down, and sleep a little
finally sleep a little

[circa 2003?]