In the dystopian future
I am a Line Waiter.
I earn a decent life cuz I stand my ground.
“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.
– – –
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
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
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.
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
Eyes go round circuiting
all the memory banks at once
“What document?” My fingers
Assure an affirmative:
‘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
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
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.”
- – –
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