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.