A little poem stirs me awake
in the morning, before the alarm goes off.
It follows me around as I brush my teeth -
dashing left and then right, pecking
continuously at my unkempt scalp

In the afternoon it is the shadow
that sweeps the dusty street behind me,
imitating my short heavy steps
pretending to be on its own journey

I nudge it gently away as I enter the office
but it is the words floating from my boss' mouth,
the hot tea warming my assistant's cup
the glass windows as they swing back and forth,
and the tiny drops of water that magically
turn to air as soon as the cleaner's mop leaves the floor

In the evening when I sit to read a book
it ghosts ahead of my eyes,
stooping after every few words
to put the next into a plastic bin,
transforming the page
into a crossword puzzle

Until finally I throw up my arms
shuffle to the overpopulated table
and begin to unravel the message
sent from the neural galaxy
that was awake when the rest of me died

Sometimes all we have to do
all there is to do
is to hold on to the ledge,
tightly, until straining veins
at the back of our hands
grow like roots seeking water,
until sore fingers silently pray
under the weight of our predicament
as we wait for the storm

and when it starts, some days
it can be as bearable
as accidentally slamming the door
on a finger, heart pounding wildly,
calling out in suffocation,
deep within the confines of soft tissues

other days, it seems to take a deep breath
pulling back heavily on the whip
before striking with barbed malice,
trying to pry open
the hinges holding our inner beings.

At one point, the winds of time
will slowly blow the dark clouds south
bringing oxygen, nutrients and hope
and we can let go of that ledge
turn around with a fortified soul
and step into the sunshine.

The simple act
of throwing cups of cold water
hurriedly, several times
over the head and shoulders,
when taking a bucket shower,
is nothing I look forward to
in the morning.

An equally boring activity
is the simple act
of shoveling forkfuls of food
almost mechanically
into the mouth
with stainless steel fingers.

But the simple act
of gazing into your eyes -
across the small circular island
holding the steam-spewing thermos,
and the yellow and white eggs
silently sizzling beside freshly baked bread,

at that time in the morning
when the birds have just started
the second round of greetings -
is pure happiness

When I pass by a woman in the streets
and the fragrance of her perfume teases my nostrils,
it makes me want to kick off my shoes
and drift off the smell of her perfume,
a human kite of some sort
wafting higher and higher
as the strength of her perfume allows.

Later in the day, when the scent of her perfume
has waned, I will be forced to sail a few inches from her ears.
At this point I will be close enough to see
the faded birthmark on her cheek,
where perhaps her daughter had kissed that morning
before running off to catch the school bus.

And where now she rubs, as she sinks into deep thought,
and I wonder, since I've been flying freely for awhile,
if the Wilburs would be proud to see
the first flight without wings,
and without the burning of centuries-old liquids,
and the beginning of a love story
all at the same time.

We all want to fit people into boxes -
big boxes, small boxes, green boxes,
sometimes wooden boxes
or even cake boxes.
And then quickly scribble short
mental descriptions on the memo pad of the brain
to save 3 months of getting to know them.

So when I saw her, sleepy lost eyes,
the escorts to a head of black hair,
contrasting with light brown skin,
it stirred primal curiosity.

She spilled over when I put her in a plastic box.
Then she was too springy to fit in the Pringles can.
So I tried to fit her in a wooden box,
one with wrought iron hinges.
But she came out of the bottom.

I have since come to accept
that she doesn't fit in any box
or receptacle for that matter.
That is what tempts you to take a little peek,
to look into the depths of her composition:
smell her fear, taste her happiness,
rub your hands through her shyness
to see how they make her eyes look down.

All I know is, when she spends hours
talking to you,
and brings you thoughtful gifts
that create restore points of happiness
somewhere in your brain,
that is her saying "I like you".

I might never discover the taste of her lips,
nor the warmth of her athletic body.
But whenever she smiles, pure and innocent,
I think of a box, wrapped with shiny blue paper,
whose contents are unknown
waiting to be opened.

It's cold outside and I sit hunched in the car,
curiously watching my wavy reflection
act out my slightest movements
in the foggy window. 
Idleness taps on my shoulder
and slowly my mind drifts from the window
to the hobbling drunks on the street,
and then to life, my life.

I can't help but think there's a magic
wand, or perhaps a baton, in the
hands of a master conductor,
directing my life with the precision
and planning of a jewellery heist.

There were times when I wanted a door
to be opened where the sun rises 
with hopeful rays and opportunities,
right over the green hills,
where birds with colourful plumage sing.
It was opened with a little bit
of creaking and some personal effort.

There were other times that despite
all the pushing, pulling and
lifting, the door would not open.
Sometimes a side-door appeared 
like a scene right out of The Matrix. 
And though I longed not to open it,
I usually did, more out of a lack
of alternatives.

It has began to drizzle now
and my eyes trail the little drops of rain
that seem to be holding hands
as they run down the window.
I keep musing on how the side-doors
have usually led to brightly lit corridors.
And how initial moments of despair
have turn out to be just as sweet
as the cherries on the hills.
Maybe even better.

Or is it just me trying to paint
events with positive colours?
Or truly, there's a hand, surely a baton,
at work, conducting the symphony of my life?

There are those that want it
to come to a complete halt,
frozen solid and white,
like an ice sculpture
stuck in a peculiar pose.
This is the only way
to stop that heart-wrenching
moment,
that robs them of their blue skies.

Then there are those that want it
to quicken its footsteps
and flip by, like the pages of
a notepad giving motion
to squiggly drawings,
in order to get the next paycheck
or start that dream job.

Me? Every now and then I want it
to make a stop by the side of the road
and enjoy a leisurely doughnut,
maybe join in on the freckled giggles
of the little girls hula hooping
on the concrete pavements,
and sing nursery rhymes of
broken eggs and fiddles.

But sometimes I just don't care
whether time shoots up the skies
or gets weighed down with iron,
especially when I've got
my favorite chicken goulash
served with fine couscous
on an afternoon such as this one,
where the sky frowns with dark clouds
and spits angry beads of rain.

As far as I'm concerned,
the brown-eyed little boy
on the corner of the street
could be the keeper of time,
making sure it walks on nonchalantly,
with no regard to people's wishes,
leaving in its wake footprints of
sadness, joy and everything in between.