Blank
By Jonathan Reid

Blank Autumn
Blank winds
Blank solemn bough bends
The wages have been lost
I’m going home
The leaves have scattered blades among the stones

Blank Winter
Blank snow
Blank bitter cocoa
The neighbors hang their colored filigree
Befuddled by the magic trinity

Blank water
Blank Spring
Blank color waves in
The flavor of the moment breeds a lack
A light inside the window culls the black

Blank Summer
Blank blues
Blank rumbling rain spews
Unable to control itself, blends
Intruding in the fabric of our ends

I am last Sunday
On the way to the store
And I am calling my mom as I walk
And I'm pushing my cart
From daylight to dark

I am my mother's answer
After four long rings
Can I call you back
in a minute?

I am crossing the street
And I'm between the traffic
And going under the train
And I am the rumbling train

I am my wife's grocery list
I am the apples
And granola bars
Paper towels
And milk
And toilet paper
And I'm the food that I'll buy
To make her this meal
That I've got in my head

I am my mom calling back
And the news of my nephew
Who made the basketball team
And I'm the pride of my nephew
And I'm the strength of the team
And I am getting the milk
And I'm forgetting the toilet paper
But I'm picking up some Asiago cheese
For the pasta I'll make
On Tuesday night

Can I call you back, Mom?
I am getting in line
And don't want to be rude
To the girl at the register
I am the girl at register
But I'm bagging my own groceries
In reusable bags
Because I'm saving the planet

And I'm back home in the kitchen
And I'm sautéing onions
And I'm garlic and salt
And turmeric and water
And rice and chicken stock

And I am waiting to boil
And I am the lid that covers the rice

I gave a penny for your thoughts,
now the ball is in your court.
I don't need the whole nine yards.
Just make a long story short.

Because actions speak louder than words
and curiosity killed the cat.
So I don't want to count my chickens
before the eggs have hatched.

I can't judge a book by its cover,
and your guess is as good as mine.
But letting the cat of the bag
might be a blessing in disguise.

There's a method to my madness.
just give the benefit of the doubt,
and  let me hear the tall tale
straight from the horse's mouth.

The ladies at the bakery
know my melody

Coffee
milk no sugar.

The first time I sang for them
they seemed surprised.

What strange notes
without sweetness.

They thought me bitter.

Nobody sang like that
But me.

Now, two years later,
when they see me in the door
we all start singing

And then I’m on my way.

I’m a teacher
getting older
becoming one of the nameless men
that taught me.

I used to wonder:
Who are these guys
who thought it was a good idea
to come back to school
after they’d escaped?

Some days I’m a mist of adulthood,
hovering over the classroom,
hiding in the cracks in the walls,
ignoring the jokes of my students.

Other days I’m an 8th grader too,
just  
grown taller
and greyer,
balder,
and fatter.
And it hurts
when the other kids don’t like me.

The train slices
grey morning.

It runs, cutting
up silent tunnels and windows.
Its briny dull metal
wounds our dreams.