The Etch-a-Sketch
could draw me in
enticing my flexing fingers
to anticipate the feeling
of the erratic twisting
of its creamy knobs.
Hours would pass
before my neck would lift
in a final decision
to wipe it all clean
by flipping it over
and shaking it senseless.
My desire to leave
my artistic mark
with those jagged lines
of metallic entrails
retracing my thoughts
was again proven worthless.
A hundred and one things
compile today;
my back yields to the weight
of all of them.
Yet, my cat must be hugged.
My fingers deep,
press her close
till my breath slows
to her softening purrs.
Yet, my poem must be written
before I sleep.
Digging deep
I try to leave my mark
as blood is seeping
from her scratch on my thigh.
When your hands are small
it is easy to wrap
your fingers
around a candy bar
that you didn’t pay for.
When your fingers
have grown for forty years
guilt can become too heavy
to take.
No scarlet A,
just a white O
around your finger,
the shame of your mistake.
Till a new temptation
melts your loneliness,
and stolen moments
are all you desire.
O,
how uplifting.
She could blame the caffeine
or the thousand and one
details and unmade decisions
that follow her
home from work
waking her up
at 3:07 to throw off
covers and expectations
of a good night’s sleep,
but she doesn’t.
She just stumbles
to the bathroom,
closing her eyes again
to the glare of the light,
only a sliver
squeezing through
while cupping her hands
trying to sip enough
to swallow an aspirin.
She lay back down,
dreams beginning
to slide again
into distorted cubicles
and his accusation
that work
is
her life.
When the alarm finally rings,
its sharpness
reawakens that throbbing headache,
and she finds only a dribble
of relief
rolling onto the coolness
of his side of the sheet.
She could blame him
for her pain
and her thirst,
but she doesn’t,
faulting only her skillful fingers,
unable to catch water
or men.
Talking frogs
and levitating children
danced with mushrooms
in my imagination.
Fanciful sojourns
to mystical places
could hold me
spell bound
for hours at a time.
Then I grew
too busy for books,
my hands caught up
in other tasks.
Untethered,
I have flown
into the place
where exertion
and exhaustion
collide.
If a floating lady
with a sparkling wand
wants to make me
sleep for a thousand years,
then let her.
Slithering worms
I’ve tried to bait,
make me turn away
stabbing them
telepathically
unable to look.
The texture of oatmeal
pressing with my tongue
to the roof
of my mouth
makes me want
to vomit,
knowing it
would look the same
in the bowl.
Sliminess is disgusting,
sludging
with a viscosity
that I can’t abide.
But somehow
the feeling
of pumpkin guts,
squeezng between
my frozen fingers,
squirting slippery seeds
to terrorize my family,
is SQUISHINGLY,
OOZINGLY,
beautiful.
