I Wrote This #19: The Puddles By Evening

Ref. a word of caution, note #1. Poems do make appearances. Until I start composing anew I’m just going to occasionally drop my lyrical skillz from back in the day on ya. I’m probably at #30, now, or the next one would be. So this was written when I was 63% gestated, poetically speaking.

This is what you're wondering. I know it is.

it’s morning, you know
we could
paint a still life with our impotent fingers
or cook eggs with every
spice in the drawer
we could
dig holes in the front yard,
bury treasures in front of
button-down commuters get
smashingly drunk forget
where we put them dig
them up and be convincingly surprised.

we could pretend our hands are
virgin hands our
eyes new canvases and record
like nude Rembrandts
the embarassing details
we could make a creek of
pillows from one
side of the house to another
roll the entire length of it naked and
end up tangled in each other when they
run out

There is a whole day ahead of us, a whole world ahead of us –
a world of misery separated from us by
firecracker smoke, by cannonsmoke.

We have the house to ourselves
we could duct tape cardboard to the
exterior and pretend its one big
refrigerator box we could
jettison old ball mice and fat computer monitors
into the driveway erect
a campfire in the living room and
imagine that we have rebelled against something
fittingly awful, the modern world scowling at
our rusticity we could
make a tincan telephone that connects the entire
cul-de-sac and dress up smart and
sell it as charmingly as Ma Bell door-to-door

But our refined brains think two things:
sex again, handcuffed to maturity, or sleep.
What a world. What a longing.
What our age must suggest.
What an excuse: your starched reputation.
What courage could come from your bleached conscience.
How lovely to be trapped.

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