I couldn’t build a bench
out of memories’ planks and boulders.
My clothes snagged on exposed, rusty nails.
My muscles bruised and grew purple.
So I stand here, the heel
of my left foot worn so far sideways
that my ankle tips and my eyes
watering incessantly from pollen.
My wanky right foot kicks
at the fulcrum like a soccer ball.
An hour I explain to myself. A full hour
to listen to words I had the chance to hear
when they were said the first time.
An hour. If I can only leverage
this splintered branch
underneath the world.
(Note: Based on the familiar meme:
If you could spend one hour
sitting on this bench
in conversation with someone,
who would it be? )
I talk. The wind howls.
Willows bend. Oak branches twist.
No one hears my words.
It isn’t easy to be old
here in this city that worships
wealthy parents and student loans,
especially if you’re too freeform
to ever be tenured or thought of as a scientist.
To be truly appreciated here,
it helps to be
a statue or a plaque
commemorating something else
that is even older.
Ah, coffee coffee
coffee coffee coffee, ah
first cup of coffee.
Leafed with mobs, shills and
mercenaries, this tree’s roots
spread deeply and wide.
Grey clouds and cold rain
nipping at fingertips, we
wait for something new.
It’s better sometimes
to simply not say, better
to wait for the dawn.
Hordes of blank notebooks
beside rollerball pens.
Dawn sizzles through fog.
Gray pavement glistens.
Rain anoints guttered leaves. Steam
swells over coffee.
Maybe distances used to simply be too
distant. Falseness could traverse the globe
be rediscovered on worm-ravaged parchment,
and accepted as historically accurate.
In less than
the width of a single eyelash,
the muted click of a keyboard,
lies now damage
everyone at the same time.