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You may have to think hard
to remember
boredom,
that lay on the couch,
curl up with a good book
lapse into nothingness
way of existing.

Ahhh...

Drink cocoa
slow.
Lick marshmallowy foam
off your lips.
Expect nothing
more than the turn
of another page.

Ahhh…

Let quietness seep
in with breaths
deep and warming,
a hot mug to your cheek.

Linger.
Let only decadent words
pour from your mouth
when silent reading
can not be done.

Ahhh…
Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.
I have to admit my weakness,
my inability to control my carnal urges.

I have reached again into the depths
of my cupboard where I have vowed
to never enter with a hungry stomach.

And so the temptation of linguine
and innocent tiny shells
crowded into my head
instead of heavenly angel hair.

I have faith that only you
can absolve me of my sins
and twenty pounds, more or less,
a 10% tithe to my Semolina God.

Then there is the matter of the cheese.
Forgive me, please.
Parents assembled
cameras at the ready
the graduates march
with mortarboards tassled.

Faculty tributes
ever glowing praises
but graduates listen
with an eye to the prize.

Pomp and Circumstance
playing throughout the gym
while graduates ignore
with hopes for a cupcake.

Kindergarten bites.
The rain has started
with a quietness
so warm and calming
that the tree
throws its back
into the gentle wind
and feels the wetness
rushing down its bark.

It allows the drips to slip
through its branches
between bud
and newly formed leaf
soaking down
through the dusty dirt
surrounding its trunk
and flow deep
deep down
to the thirsty straws
of its roots.

Throwing away
all safety advice
I stand with one hand
on the tree’s wet bark
and the other out and up
allowing the drips to slip
through my fingers
between the rings
of our newly formed union
soaking down
through my clothes
surrounding my skin
and flow deep
deep down
to the healing place
of my soul.

And if my sighs of contentment
and renewed strength
were not so loud,
you could have heard
the tree’s.
"Clean your room already!"
she said for the thousandth time.

But six years said I deserved better
so I loaded my Radio Flyer with licorice and toys
and headed down the sidewalk.

The block was long but I was ready
to leave my chores behind.

Running away from everything
is a luxury that only children can afford
with a twenty-five cent allowance.

And I would have gotten all the way to Michigan
if only I had been allowed to cross the street.
Be afraid.
The breakdown of civilization
is at the hands of our well-meaning,
overly thrifty,
spoon-wielding  mothers.

Be very afraid.
They are entranced by spices
and covering condiments,
pepper and powder,
onion and garlic galore.

Gingerly they add cumin and dill,
cinnamon, nutmeg or cloves
with thyme to add sage and curry,
parsley, paprika and allspice.

Their casseroles become
zombie food
as the dead
reanimates.

These cheese-added monsters,
hungry for mystery-meat,
render brains to mush
and bind our bowels.

They stiffen our gait
with numbness and nausea
until we are rendered victims
of another pepto-pandemic.

And in the night
of the living dead,
feeding us salt
in a casserole apocalypse,
we panicked victims become
the casseroles we consume.

Now paralyzed
in fear
by the light
of the open refrigerator.
The fallen leaves
are gauzing thin
as they lay decaying
on the forest floor
and the frost that formed
crystal by crystal
slowly in the night
with the morning
sparkles to become
the jewels of fairies.

She is fluttering
her feminine silhouette
flirtatious against the grass
so distorted
that your eyelashes
can not catch her
but only a gleaming hint
of gossamer wings
delicate and ethereal
is reflecting in the morning's
slanting sun.

You are tempted
into probing under a leaf
with a broken twig
seeking her soft footprints
but they make no mark
on the fragile leaves
or in the softened grass
and her clandestine space
is too elusive
for your eyes.

She is hiding
veiled and disguised
carefully concealed
and you can only see
the glittering cobwebs
formed by a hungry spider
into a intricate misted mesh
catching careless flies
and morning dew.

She is fooling you
once again obscure
and her transparent laughter
like the soft spoken sound
of a faraway subtle pan-flute
is floating with your
sheer wonderings
in the waking light.
Even tightly wound thread
must learn
to let go.

Flying through the machine
is the only way to leave
the spool spinning
naked.
I took my wagon
to the end of our block
knowing I could not go
any further.

Standing there
I waited
for my mother
to bring me
home.

It felt forever
till she came
gathering me
into her arms,
pulling my wagon
home.

It is closer
to our forevers now,
but I am not ready
to let you go.

If you could only tell me
what street to cross
to the corner
of Cancer and You,
I will bring
my wagon.

Ride with me.
Hang on tight.

It's going to be
a bumpy ride
home.
The canoe kept us
apart
each on our own
hard metal bench,
closer to each other
than we had been
in months.

We rode
finally
in the same direction,
paddling
first on one side,
then the other.

In the calming moments
when rocks were not
running up
to test us,
we found places
to lay our paddles down
and glide
in the quietness.

Both of us
checking
the sky for clouds.
Yes, they all agree.
It's time to go.
Relatives and friends
trickle away
leaving her
to close the door.

Washing up their plates,
she listens to the sounds
of silverware
clinking softly under the suds.

Her eyes cold and hard
as the knife she holds.
Staring at a dripping distortion
of herself,
the face on the blade
is unrecognizable.

Stabbing the knife into suds
that close behind the blade
in a slow thin flow,
no visible trail is left
to show the water's wound.

Her tears drip through
unnoticed
in the changing color
of the dishwater.

Relatives and friends
stream in
to stand by her,
a torrent
of sympathetic chatter,

Red roses,
her favorite,
so lovely
standing tall
together.

Yes, they all agree.

That was clear
as dishwater.
Yes,
it was a special day.

We were all there,
some by force
of the buffet,
some by force
of mothers.

And suddenly,
my dog
feeling the force
of Mother Nature,
left a piece
at the feet
of my Aunt Kate.

My dog,
now obviously
the reincarnation
of my Uncle Ted,

may he rest in peace,

caused Aunt Kate
loudly to dismay,
"My God!"
I walk in socks
unwilling to wake
the sleeping
as I pass the window
showing multiple images,
of myself,
distorted and untouchable,
in the blackened night.

It is easy
to slide quietly
between the pains
of glass
and into that darkness
where my regrets
leave an untouchable
mark.

I can stay in the shadows
as long as the moon
is on my side
and keeps
his hands
to himself.
Only men remember the names of their cars,
the make and model and the year they got them.

They can recall the feeling on their thighs
from the cushioning of luxurious leather
as they slide in with a longing sigh.

There is no will power known to man
that can keep their fingers from caressing,
the steering wheel spinning in their fantasy drive.

Eyes scanning the dash to inspect the odometer
praising the low mileage of where she's been driven
fooling himself that he's the driver that counts.

If only they understood the true lust of leather
comes in the form of wedges or stilettos,
and not only noticed when they're kicked off.

Which, by the way, are Pradas,
sold by Neiman Marcus,
bought last month at Fifth and Grand.
I will admit
to overdosing them
with sweet beguiling
slippery softener
‘till dead at my feet
they can rise
no more.

Yet they cling to me
as they can
with a ghastly
screaming need
for me to pull
them up.

Yes, once
I had a pair of normal socks.

— The End —