These words are fingerprints;
A momento of the fleeting seconds
Where I overflow with emotion
Like a glass under a faucet.
True, these portraits are usually
A collection of broken mirrors,
But let me write when I am howling
At the moon in my car
As the man on the radio makes love
To his microphone
And the glow of streetlights light
The path home.
Let me write when the floors are clean,
Lemon cleaner and sunlight pouring in,
And I'm trimming the ends of flower stalks
For a vase that paints these walls of mine "home".
I am not entirely fragmented.
My ankles may weaken
And my spine my stiffen
And static might overwrite my thoughts
When the sun retires,
But against everything, I stand.
I stand.