It was a lifetime ago...just yesterday,
when rain fell softly upon my face.
That spoke to me of younger years,
with all my innocence thus encased.

I could feel the rainbow...just out of reach,
all the colors of moments passed.
Where truths were lies and lies believed,
countless, as grains in an hourglass.

I can bear forth the torch...yet not burn the eyes,
to scald away truth's stench and decay.
Why can't we hold to the dreams of youth,
that was a lifetime ago...just yesterday?

dragonflies return
to the place where they were born
my humble pond

We are the cities,
old and new alike.
We are the buildings:
skyscraper or condemned.
We are the windows,
glinting in the sun --
broken and *****.
We are the streets,
   intersecting,
some winding down
to the water's edge.

We are the civilizations
ancient or teeming --
shining on golden plains,
or laying in decay.
Edifices rising
and temples fallen.
We are the gods of the mighty
and the lowly.
We are the triumphs,
we are the tragedies.

We are the cities...

There is nowhere to hold this, and it is heavy.

We drink coffee in white, square mugs
on the fifth ***** step.
I am sick and the coffee pinballs in my stomach.
You do not care about hydration.
You are covered in so much paint
you look like Matisse in a fender-******.
You look sore all the way down to your fingers.

The bed in the opposite room won't be yours,
but could be.

I lope around nauseous on the mornings
I don't work. I light candles that jump
with a stench of French Vanilla. Dogs bark
unholy early.
I tire of the anxious sleep of the newly living-there,
the newly living.
The loud neighbour,
the considerate neighbour,
the ******* dogs.

I open the bedside drawer.
No Gideon hotel bibles.
Condoms, picture frames,
instructions for a washing machine.
No Bibles.

Sometimes, I find it in my shoes - this envy -
or in my pockets.
And sometimes I drag it behind me,
like wedding cans on a bachelor's car,
filaments of grief and filthy broken dinnerware,
threaded cotton of towels
too often used without washing
and wine bottle bones.

And somebody once told me not to paint a
room in it, but this jealousy is sage, not lime,
and I could **** well sleep in here,
and sometimes do.

The drought is over. You can see
the wet leaves on the wet sidewalk.
They look like the petals we wore for clothes
when we were kids. That morning we
held hands, while the morning flowers impeached
a more unnecessary presence from the earth
than us. The egg, the leaf that curled
like your young tongue, the tomato
un-sighed for and far, far too red,
left far too long and on the far-too-long-and-withered vine—
left so unsuppressed.

Yes, all the grass is wet and green again.
The land is lucid, ripe.
I was nine, you were ten.

© Jim Kleinhenz