"midspring" poems
it was uncomfortably
hot out today
i put my cardboard box
down on the pavement
and squinted into
the midspring sun
grateful for the
knowledge
of the truth
the ukulele truth
and nothing but
the truth
like i could
scream every
johnny cash song
i've never learned
at every pathetic smoker
disobeying the signs
and i understood
oh but did i
understand
why they're always
pushing friday
on midweek radio shows
it's thursday
at 3pm
and guess what?
now we're free
*(to roll in the grass
and soak up the sunshine
or maybe just
take a nap)*
tell your winter
clothes where they
can stuff it
and your hick
christmas lights
to get lost
there's a pitcher
of unsweetened
ice tea with just a
dash of lemon juice
waiting for me when
i get home
and a cracked
front step to
nod off on once
it gets cooler
and even these
june bugs
out in may can't
bring me down.
Aug 13, 2016
Aug 13, 2016 at 11:39 PM UTC
I built you a home in my head
and in it I waited for you
day and night.
I wandered the many rooms I gave to you
and sat in the many chairs I set out for the waiting.
I watched out the windows of my eyes.
I decorated it to welcome you, and only you.
Every piece of furniture and hanging frame
was chosen so when you arrived
you would want to stay.
The light came and went,
I made sure it hit the rooms in all the right places.
Our kitchen was bright in the mornings
and the library glowed orange at sunset.
You didn’t come
and so I waited.
The weeks swelled into months
and seasons came and went.
In the summer it was airy and cool
the doors, propped open for you,
brought in the scent of grass and lemonade.
In the winter it was warm and quiet,
and smelled of cinnamon like your hair.
I waited and watched,
and you didn’t come.
Years rose and set like the sun
and the house grew dusty.
Paint peeled and the color lost its luster,
tired from years of expectation.
The walls settled and the floorboards creaked,
asking for you when it was only my steps.
The bed sagged into a frown
when I climbed in alone at night.
Even the windows grew cloudy,
muddling the light and obscuring my vision.
In winter the wind shook and it groaned with aching.
Still, the house was warm
and smelled of cinnamon like your hair.
Still, you didn’t come.
Still I waited.
One morning in midspring,
when the open windows brought
rose-scented air to rouse me from sleep,
I felt my bones were too tired to sit up
and resume the waiting.
The bed heaved a sigh in my loneliness,
curling around my aching joints and wrinkled skin.
I stayed there all day, listening to the house call for you
in all its creaks and groans.
It sounded tired like me.
I watched the way the light shifted from morning into afternoon
and finally to the peachy-purple haze of sunset.
Then, in the moment between twilight and night,
the house was quiet.
The light lowered below the windows
and all was dark.
A memory came to me
of a home I had built
with many rooms and many chairs.
Who it was for I could not remember
but its emptiness echoed through the halls of my bones
until my heart grew tired of waiting and finally
stopped.
Aug 4, 2014
Aug 4, 2014 at 11:13 PM UTC