You wanted to say
so much
yet didn’t
but called for
a dumpster
to toss their life
their boxes
and boxes
of this and that
their knick
knack
bric-a-brac
their photos
of strangers
shoulders aching
your hands
dust dirty
staining your soul
‘sorry
so sorry’
with tears falling
on plants just dying
to go home
with you.
The dying maple could not hold
the grass
around its roots
so my brother’s
Hot Wheels made
curving
crossing roads
upon the dirt.
They only stayed
from rain to rain.
I could not hold him either.
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.
The time between
August and September,
unaware of an impending threat,
falls quickly
swishing soft
with sounds of rustling leaves,
while my money
crackling dry
unfolds in the seasonal shopping
of back to school.
That hundred dollar bill,
an endangered alien species,
protected from the enemy
by my careful oscillation
of my arms to and fro
and up and down,
was tucked safely in my purse
until it blew away too fast,
sucked into a cash register vortex.
Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.
I have to admit my weakness,
my inability to control my carnal urges.
I have reached again into the depths
of my cupboard where I have vowed
to never enter with a hungry stomach.
And so the temptation of linguine
and innocent tiny shells
crowded into my head
instead of heavenly angel hair.
I have faith that only you
can absolve me of my sins
and twenty pounds, more or less,
a 10% tithe to my Semolina God.
Then there is the matter of the cheese.
Forgive me, please.
Adrenaline rush of air flies by you at 80 mph
filling your lungs with a vital breath of speed,
humming with traffic as you weave through it.
Somewhere down the road the strands of asphalt
will test your ability to navigate the curves
ending with loose gravel and a taste of bitter bark.
Trapped in the confines of my sealed up car
I curse your lack of respect for the living,
no thought of your loved one answering the door.
Strangers will tell her how the race finished,
holding her gently, giving no comfort,
gasping for breath when she goes down.
Suffering no broken bones, no dirt in her mouth to spit,
her lips will close without any words, humming a bitter tune.
Years will not fly by fast enough, her pain dying so slow.