She is in the department store
rifling through the clothing rack,
inside the dressing room,
at the makeup counter,
holding many bags
minus the ones under her eyes.
She is orange, with hard rocks
as tits, and curled straws as hair.
She crows like a baby,
someone please help me
swipe my hubby's credit card.
Her breathe precipitating
the bottles of wine she'll drink later,
after complaining she doesn't
look like she's 20.
I want to save him from her,
throwing her hands up scaring everyone.
He is kind and calm and doesn't deserve this.
I wanted to save him years ago, but it wasn't my place.
Now he won't leave.
He'd rather drain his retirement than leave.
He'd rather listen to her blab and watch cable tv than leave.
I want him to leave, but I'd also hate to see him alone.
She makes him happy, even if she's ugly.
He is at the bar
flirting with the girls she hates
staying out until 8
double timing with her bestie.
He is scraping by,
stuck in a college town,
the scent of whisky on his breath
as he crawls into bed with her,
I wanted to save her from him.
She is strong and he is weak,
crippled by too many drunk nights
turned into vice.
She is sweet,
her history of
revolving hospital doors,
has mellowed her,
at least someone loves her.
For seven years she didn't leave
I wanted to save her,
but I didn't know how.
She loved him and it wasn't my place.
An outsider, I couldn't believe
the intricacies of their chemistry.
He made her happy, even though he was ugly.
I am an un.
says the hesitation
that strikes the chords
of their voices.
Even though I know
my spirit is pure,
I am often inside at night,
with a hunk of stale bread
and a glass of cabernet.
If spirit were met with as much joy
as knowledge, there would be so many less
un's in the world.
If uncertainty as resolute as classification,
diversity would be a road less overgrown.
The unfamiliar flora a familiar feeling,
dark green leafy nets of confident obscurity:
people helping each other move forward,
including the un's.
But for un's, life is not this^
Life as an un is trudging up a desolate hill
with no vegetation and getting
silently pushed down by other people,
who tell you that you're not fit
for trudging until you begin to slow down,
until it gets muddy,
until you only walk up when they tell you
walking is good for you;
you used to walk to clear your head.
But wisdom is foreign to
the top of the hill, where you long to be
just so you can stop trudging,
just so you can not be an un
to the shaking heads and closed fists,
perched and looking down below.