My life spins
like an empty bottle
when I am with you
remembering.
Unable to pour out
what you do
that reminds me
of him,
only a smile points
its way to my lips,
my guilty pleasure
remembering
what we did.
When I recognize
that smile on you,
I have to let
you drink it in.
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.
There is a tiredness
that is dying with me
and I long
for a dumpster
to toss it away,
but it has settled
itself upon my shoulders,
and won’t let go.
If I had any energy
at all,
I would be scrubbing out
the refrigerator,
or mopping the floor,
or doing the laundry,
but I am just typing,
sitting,
again,
only my fingers moving.
Later, when friends ask,
“How did you
manage to write a book?”
I will be as surprised
as they are,
while kicking dust bunnies
under my chair.
Night has its routine,
comforting in its
sameness,
the way my hand
must find its place
next to my chin,
my knees tucked up,
toes seeking
a night breeze.
Then my eyes close
searching
for swirling sparkles
that morph
with blotching
nothingness
pulling me in
to the same old,
same old
fears.
I am loosing
this pillow fight,
too old
for a lullaby,
too old to scream.
All the same,
I wish I didn’t
dream.
In her day she
had all the time she wanted
to hear clock music
between 2 layer pie crusts
and skimming cream
off milk.
Tick and tock,
1 and 2,
1 and 2.
At the end of my day
I’m the hungry 1,
living in a 2% world
where everything,
but me,
is thinned.
I feast alone
at the smorgasbord
of life
trying this and that,
1 and 2,
1 and 2.
My pie comes frozen
with cream in a can
and still I hunger
for more.
Time lays cold
between 2 layers of dirt.
I am the lonely
1.
You come back
checking to see
if something new
is hiding here
for you.
It is.
A little gift,
more leather for the elves,
more makes more,
and so they create.
This poem of thanks
I create for you,
all you,
who come to check
for something new.
It is my little gift,
more raw hide for my readers,
more read more,
my life story beaten down
makes beauty,
and so I create.
Come back.
When you walk in my shoes
it removes the nail
from my heel.
Thank you.