Line Waiter

In the dystopian future

I am a Line Waiter.

I earn a decent life cuz I stand my ground.

As surrogate.

No time to wait in line? Make the appointment anyway

then just show up!”

get the picture on yr phone?

Sometimes people throw coins, too

When I dance a little shimmy. Nice perk.

All day to contemplate the ones before

Philosopher by inadvertency (trying to keep self-amused.)

Lots of thoughts to think; no blame to be had.

We’re all in line somewhere for something we don’t

Feel in front of yet.

Yeh?

– – –

Don’t be shy, little words, just dance write up

Blow past the mind on your own mission

Of being seen at the same time as being said

So, don’t let me get in the way,

Just swarm by, mob the

Blood-brain barrier,

Well up in the ears,

Overfill the eyes,

Wash over the feet

Fill my hands so that to

Shake them is to write you up.

  • – –

Broad & Chestnut Meet

I was keeping that Philadelphian ‘never-build-taller-than-Billy’s hat’

In the ‘partment; didn’t really realize that until

Things started getting taller than me

On the surround

A 7’ bookcase, the split-leaf Rhonda finally

Supported on a walk-found branch so we are

Face-to-leaf

The top of the desk calling for its own inspection

Each time I sit down. Its vortex operational

In triangular Joy.

It all moves by

Same as it ever was.

My surroundings shift like a river

I somehow manage to stand up in.

  • – –

THE BUGLE CALL OF SATURDAY MORNING Or, staying in the Flow

Saturdays start early for me…I wake with

The yearnings of a schoolgirl who has survived

A week of hell & has time before Mom gets on

About the vacuuming … time to get out with a

‘bye’ n a grab at a banana and head downstairs

for Blue Boy – the 26” bike my Missing Dad

Bought me cuz he didn’t know I had a little under

24” frame – so the bike

Was a grab-mount

Feet already pedaling the ground

Before the saddle-leap

Already in motion, side by side

Up, up & away.

RECOVERED DOCUMENT

Ever get this notice?

You pull up Word & it offers

In effect, a snick on brainpan

A kind of “Ah Ma’am, you left this”

Someone waving my flea market

Moneypurse.

My

Eyes go round circuiting

all the memory banks at once

“What document?” My fingers

Assure an affirmative:

YES!

‘Bring it to me, sweeti,’

I coax it up & it’s an

Address I typed in two

Weeks ago for an envelope

That jammed the printer.

LIFE IS A MAILED LETTER

All alone, you are formed, molded, finally

Stamped with a Diploma & a birth certificate

(on second thought, Mom kept that till needed.)

Released into the world

Like a trained animal into the circus

Applauded by a crowd you didn’t even know

Was out there all this time.

Put into the slot, sitting in the darkness

Of the not-knowing until a Uniformed Daylight

Rattled the chute

You were snatched by an unfamiliar glove

Driven, sorted, allocated by some invisible

Zip Code machine

Deposited in the tray of life

Like change in a pocket

Carelessly delivered

Tho carefully addressed

In a life where you’re the Occupant

As often as not.

  • – –

We have Ghost Houses here

In T or C

We have places that once occupied

A “where” here, these can shimmer

Into place:

Overlay a yard or a park

So you blink & maybe find a coffee.

For where you thought you were

Is not where you are.

There are incipient ranches

A mirage between the highway

And the mountains looming

Like giants: the Caballos

The Horse Mountains for when

‘they’ hid horses there.

We have nearby a changeable lake

Atop a drowned fort-militant

Something to do with hostiles

While we trespassed unmercifully

Treading their flag

Writing on ours, “Don’t.You.Dare.”

  • – –