"recliner" poems
Lets stop n slam on somethin' shameful like war and anguish...
'Cause im pretty sure that tremendous termoil and suffering and starvation is the same in all languages...
But something that most of us will never know...
'Cause in this country you tend to grow a fat *** as you grow old.
Give this countries cold dark history a warm embrace, look it in the face!
All this killing, death, distruction, and disease...more war than peace!
Something most of us will never see, much less feel...Because ignoring it is so much easier.
We'd rather be pleasing ourselves than siezing the keys to this country!
Jump in.
Take a sunday drive for freedom.
Sunday football keeps you occupied...
Kicked back in the recliner, while others freeze in the name of the flag.
And your constitution.
And the human condition.
Patriotism is not pretty to the petty.
To...those getting rich, hand over fist...
On your...vacant homes, vacant jobs, and vacant votes.
While they vacate our education with more lousy legislation.
We get lazier and sleezier and sloppier.
We pass judgement on our fellow man...
While we let politicians pass bills that destroy this great land.
Hand over fist, hand over hand...one hand washes the other politicians ****
These dinosaurs with their special interest agendas make me sick.
Stand up strait.
Look at me when I talk to you.
Dont turn a blind eye to all the bodies that once hung from loops...
Remember where we came from.
Re-write history like the bible.
Re-write war and peace.
We call soldiers "property of uncle sam".
Brainwashed to believe in 'the man' and his plans.
Slavery doesn't segregate anymore.
We're all in on this together.
This time.
We stand in unison.
All in on this together.
Revolution is freedom.
Jan 5, 2010
Jan 5, 2010 at 7:27 AM UTC
Epilogue:
The relentless tick of time
Changes things forever.
Stand on a piece of common ground
Look around and remember
Saturday afternoon outdoor charades
The local bring-and-swipe carnival-theft parade!
a spectacle event for all the family to enjoy.
“Come round for your tea” is how it often started:
Then sometime after you leave
The wee cousin Billy
does a quick shimmy
up a 200 foot drainpipe
In through the window, out through your front door
Shortly that fancy new recliner you’ve been bragging about
wont be there any more.
Not unlike tribes of indigenous peoples
they never took more than they could carry
and appreciated the karma of their actions on the jungle.
It would happen to them next week anyway
Till then at least, they had ownership of new leather recliner
People change shape and move places
Old is replaced with the new
Angry youths become middle-aged men with jobs,
carrying children with smiles on their faces
The big blocks were eventually torn down one by one
Nearly all that I remember is gone.
The wall tiles etched with a secret love
Have no place any more
Just junk messages littering another landfill
I spare a thought for the lovers
Did they ever get it on?
Nov 2, 2012
Nov 2, 2012 at 10:36 AM UTC
Today I'm trying to ignore the pain
I can imagine butterflies
Are carrying my pain to the fluffy clouds
I can imagine birds are singing to me
Instead of the constant pills I have to swallow
I can imagine that little gnomes and fairies
Are trying to take away most of my pain
Instead of the pain medicine that I take
With a snack or a meal
I can imagine that rainbows and shooting stars
Adorn the sky instead of the grey clouds
That fill the sky
I can also imagine that the day is warm enough
For our games of croquet or perhaps volleyball
Instead of the howling winds and bitter cold
That lace the air outside the house
I can try to picture myself
Reading a book underneath a sunny, shady tree
Or laying beside a babbling brook or creek
Dreaming the hours away
Instead of sitting here in the rocking recliner
Trying to ignore the pain
~Marian~
Jan 25, 2014
Jan 25, 2014 at 12:11 PM UTC
The first enchilada was created in the summer of 1968
In a small house near Seal Beach
In Southern California.
The house was owned by a friend of my dad's
Or my mom's
And we had gone over for dinner
I was eight
I would like to say that it was a cool beach pad
With wood paneling, all the rage back then
And an Eames recliner in the corner of the living room
I only remember the paneling
but since I am writing this
The Eames piece stays
We had gone for dinner
And the owner of the house had made enchiladas
Beef ones as I recall with sauce from a series of Old El Paso cans
I can still smell and taste them
They were the first world food I had ever had
Besides canned Chinese food from the supermarket which doesn't count
And because I loved them with their ground beef and sauce
Their hot oil softened corn tortillas, sour cream, cheese and green onion
And little tiny bits of black olive
They became the prison guards
Throwing open the gates of my suburban Connecticut upbringing
Letting me leave the confines and walk freely in the sunshine for the first time
They were followed by many other firsts
Sushi, Crepes, haggis, tiki masala and sea urchin to name a few
All of which owe their very existence in my life
To that first enchilada.
Aug 7, 2012
Aug 7, 2012 at 7:29 AM UTC
I think Grandpa Stewart developed a stutter
from years of being interrupted.
I've never heard him get out a whole sentence
on his own, without Grandma cutting him off
before tonight. He hobbles over to the kitchen
where I'm doing dishes after dinner.
Expectantly, I look up into the ***** windowpanes
of his old, gray eyes,
his hands are shaking and lips quivering.
When he talks, it's like a secret, and he
tells me, struggling over sequence and syllables,
stories of being a volunteer firefighter. Days
he was the strongest man anyone knew.
He stopped a flaming tractor trailer, once, from
running away all ablaze when its brakeline blew up.
Set his jaw, leaned into the smoke, another time,
and pushed onward in steady strides, putting out
a fire in a nickel and dime store, even when
the hose pressure was pushing his line of
sweaty men backward into the street.
Where the hell is that fighting man? I look
at the hunched, wrinkled one before me and remember
the panic that crippled him when
his second son killed himself 12 years ago.
Knelt down as if in prayer, begging
for forgiveness maybe, put a shotgun under his chin,
and blew his brains out, a different type of fire,
with carbon and sulfur exploding just as deadly.
They said the bullet came out his eye socket.
I don't know how they could tell.
It was a stranger in the casket they pieced together
from chunks of skull found across the basement floor.
Haunted by fires, Grandpa doesn't sleep now,
answers the phone on the first ring, paralyzed
in perpetual anxiety, yelling,
"Y-Y-YES?! He-Hello?!"
His stutters are a endless seziure convulsing
on his tongue. He's slower, he's somewhere else, he 's
interrupted and doesn't try. He's medicated
and sedated and
smothered into this empty shell of
a man, sleeping, existing on a living room recliner,
****** with colorless eyes,
desensitized to fear and family, broken
in the wake of fire's senseless destruction;
all the charred ashes left in its place.
Nov 3, 2011
Nov 3, 2011 at 12:56 PM UTC
God visited our house last Sunday
a bright papaya orange butterfly
welcomed Him,
fluttering in loops like a kite
as He stepped out of His car
Embracing our dear friend Jon from
New Jersey
He entered our pagoda
indeed, not as a guest but
as an embodiment of God
The early afternoon was garlanded
in loving, intimate, animated conversation
and a delectable lunch was served to our
beloved brother
This was topped off with nectar sweet
chocolate coconut prasadam
Everything from matters of the spirit
to soul stirring S.R.F. devotional songs
chanting sublimely
suffused our heavenly day
Even the backyard birds turned out
in large numbers
their cocky red, brown and
sky blue heads
peeking curiously through
the patio door
craned to catch a glimpse
of our divine companion
Jon, His mellow, prayerful eyes
blessing all His gaze fell upon
leaned back comfortably in
the recliner chair
like a long lost friend
returning home ~
Feb 27, 2014
Feb 27, 2014 at 10:51 PM UTC
We are completely and utterly ****** up.
Daddy stomps his feet around;
rawr, rawr, rawr
Little brother stands defiantly;
screaming, "I hate you; I will **** you all!"
tears streaming down his face;
once innocent but now always covered
in anger, in insecurities, in uncertainty.
And mama is in the recliner;
slurring sarcastic comments.
A glass of wine for each hour of the day.
Where's sister you ask?
Well she's probably not here; trying to escape.
Filled with such an anger, such a stubbornness.
Or maybe she's in her room dancing;
not very good at it, but an outlet none the less.
As all of this psychotic behavior is enveloping
the lives of these people, I sit on the couch
an just watch it all.
Shut off to the world, I sit.
And I laugh and laugh at the fact,
that we are completely and utterly ****** up.
Jan 13, 2013
Jan 13, 2013 at 8:37 PM UTC
You are the clapping monkey
You are the restless throb of dusty city streets
You are the children running around after the school bell
And the stubborn tree that has lived in the neighbourhood for fifty years
However, you are not clipped footsteps of harried workers
Or the diligent, clockwork-like ebb of traffic
And you are certainly not tranquil duck in the middle of the city park
There is just no way that you are the tranquil duck
It might interest you to know that
I am the neat, color-coded filing cabinet
I also happen to be worn-out recliner beckoning in the evening’s light
And the ever-winding, deserted country road
I also happen to be the free-floating paper bag
But don’t worry, you are still the clapping monkey
You will always be that clapping monkey
And I am the enchanted audience.
Feb 24, 2013
Feb 24, 2013 at 1:18 PM UTC
I bring hit after hit like a boxer
You haters' inconsistent
Everybody's on the same vibe
Mine's kinda' different
Verse hot, hook hot--
I'm gon' sellout soon as I drop
Verse hot, hook hot--
I'm gon' sellout soon as I drop
Minor in poetry, fine-arts major
Doctor goon on deck, call this a fear-factor
I'm going in, but I ain't got no curfew
I son a lot of you, it's like I birth you
Got a lot of verses, but this ain't a Bible
Fallout when you hear this, I ain't liable
Ain't talking 'bout tearing, but the beats R.I.P
Didn't sell a lot of tracks, but I got D.O.E
Put you up on game, my hustle's M.O.E
Music over everything, ain't moving 'D'
I got cash like the bank, I sell CD's
Smells funny, tickled my nose, I might sneeze
You would think I'm water, the way I flow
I'm just like some dynamite, bound to blow
Act like you're in a recliner, lay back
If I ain't on fire, then why they say that?
Feature, feature, can I get a feature
So far ahead I sit on competition--bleacher
My Raps' like a bunch of apartment buildings, complex
Got chicks on my jock', ain't talking 'bout ***
I'm so different, it's magnificent
Haters want me to fall, but that's not how the script went
Thing's fishy, I ain't gettin' caught in that net
Just killed the beat, without breaking a sweat
Oct 10, 2013
Oct 10, 2013 at 12:12 PM UTC
Now, here's the story of Rip Van Winkle
The true story, not the lie
They always want to hide the truth
I'll just never understand why
You see, Rip Van Winkle was married
To a woman, who always nagged
And that poor dude was bored all the time
Cause his internet always lagged
So, he climbed up in his recliner
And decided to take a little nap
When, out of the blue, the Sleeping Spider
Went and crawled up in his lap
Now, Rip knew about that spider
But still, he just couldn't resist
For if he let that spider bite him
They'd be no "honey do" list
Well, that spider sunk his fangs in
Then jumped back on the floor
It wasn't long, Rip closed his eyes
And man, that guy could snore
Now, a wicked smile even crossed his face
As he leaned back in his chair
For, when he awoke, she'd would be gone
But Rip, just simply didn't care
Well a hundred years just flew by
And his wife was surely dead
But when he finally opened his eyes
She lay beside him in the bed
She awoke while still clutching
"The list" for a hundred years
For the spider had bitten her also
And it brought the man to tears
But this story has a happy ending
Cause dial-up was a thing of the past
They decided to finally get broadband
And his internet was fast at last
Dec 1, 2010
Dec 1, 2010 at 7:03 AM UTC
He was an old cowboy, and he never liked to hear that cowboys were a dying breed. Those were fighting words, indeed, so don't ever tell him that. Yes, a cowboy, through and through, and he hoped he'd die in the open, big sky of Montana, right by his old horse, Dusty. Falling in love with the outdoors, he grew up working on his uncle's ranch and was hooked from the very start. Now Ride 'Em Rick had breathed his last and finally met his Maker. He was ready, for sure, and died with his boots on, just like he hoped would happen. It wasn’t out in the open, but as he was snoozing on his recliner and he never woke up.
When most of his children were arguing about things they shouldn't be, Jet took charge to see to a proper burial. He refused to be among the squabbling siblings.
You never visited him!
Oh, yeah! The only reason you came over was to get more money out of him!
I loved Pop! You never loved the man!
*You're just like him! Pigheaded! Impossible to tell you a ****** thing!*
He's not just your dad, so don't act so high and mighty!
And so how would Pop have wanted to be buried? He was a hard man to know—even after seventy-seven years on this earth. Well, Jet knew his father was a proud man, and a lover of all things cowboy. It would be nothing fancy—he’d be done up in his good flannel shirt and jeans, and of course with his boots on, and his cowboy hat slightly tucked under his cold, hard fingers. A lasso would be a nice touch, and some of the old, cowboy tunes during the service would be perfect. Surely, if Rick was going to die with his boots on, they’d stay with him to the very end. So that was how it all would be.
And so Ride 'Em Rick looked regal in his humble garb. Stony in life, so he was in death. Mostly, the old man kept his distance, and that seemed normal to Jet. But now standing with his two boys, one on each side of him, Jet hoped he would have been a more hands-on father to his sons. With the help of his wife, Carly, he was surely keeping on course. The siblings were still at odds, but there were plenty of tears and hugs going around to keep the peace and to make a good gathering. And so it was a fitting farewell to man who felt most at home on the trails and in the saddle, buried with his boots on.
Mar 19, 2017
Mar 19, 2017 at 1:56 PM UTC
As a child in primary school
curled beneath a black coat
with neon-pink and -yellow zippers, empty pockets
holding my chest
beside two gray recess doors.
I’d pretend it was my living room,
with no visitors.
Watched t.v., mainly, and not talk on the phone.
Drank apple-juice beer from my concocted fridge
on my green recliner chair
until the doors opened and my building fell
apart.
I moved to an apartment
on a busy city street-- no green
recliner:
no beer, no t.v.
Stealing internet from Burmese-jungle refugees
to read about food shortages, and indiscriminate mass killings.
Beside the doors with
zipped zippers, and isolated goosebumps--
Monkey bar plucking, screaming
running and jumping-- trip and fall
in love, dancing haphazardly-- well
until the sound of a bell.
Feb 13, 2011
Feb 13, 2011 at 7:29 PM UTC
A blank page of hope cracked like porcelain
The light fades and darkness seeps through
Crumpled in the trash, start again
Beauty and elegance
Bright reds and yellows
Floral print gowns and freckle kissed skin
A hateful snarling stretched mouth
Blatant hurtful words and red lights
Crumpled on the couch
A new suit, haircut and polished black shoes
Tonight we got drinks
A little hope and a touch of scent
Growing feelings of love lost in the confusion
Translucent optimism
Crumpled at a table for two bearing a neon sign screaming vacancy
Liquor bottles and oceans of cigarette butts
A scratchy blanket and some reruns of the late show
The whiny tones of some country western romantic on the radio
The bellows of a 3 a.m. train
Crumpled in the shallow heart of suburbia
The first breathe of fresh air for three weeks
The stinging criticism of sunlight
Cut grass and the earths slow steady breathing under foot
A ***** kitchen and some worn out jeans
A meaningful life full of meaningless time
Soccer games and sitcoms
Crumpled in a compact car
Memories in a bag set on a shelf just out of reach
Brittle bones and worn skin
More reruns of the late show
Waiting for Christmas and thanksgiving and the recliner
Confusion and hurt
Crumpled in the ground
Feb 22, 2012
Feb 22, 2012 at 2:10 AM UTC
The hot dogs blossomed, split in the boiling water.
Plumes of beef stock and corn syrup billowed
toward the surface.
6:00 p.m. and the anchorwoman addressed the living room.
Three dogs for Dad in Dad's recliner, one dog for Mom
in Mom's recliner, one dog extra in case she changed her mind,
and two for me.
Yellow mustard. Relish. A dead ****** in standard definition.
"Did you do something different to these hot dogs?" Dad asked.
"Is it bad?" Mom asked.
"It's just different," he said.
But even that was the same. The same question. Same response.
Every Wednesday from '93-2005.
At 6:15, Dad would go blow his nose in the bathroom.
Put on a pearl snap button-down.
At 6:20, Mom would tell me to put on slacks.
"Good Christian men don't wear shorts to church."
That's right. But I didn't have the heart to remind,
the best of them wore dresses.
Mom would drive. Dad would be in the passenger seat.
He perpetually directed her to stay as far to the right side
of the gravel road as possible.
"One of those baboons will come flying over the hill.
Middle of the road. And if you don't get over,
we'll all die. Or at least a couple of us."
We'd get to church.
And all the old women
with their purple hair and ill-fitting
bracelets of golden-colored metal,
named after precious gemstones (Ruby, Pearl, etc., etc.),
would kiss my cheek.
We'd sit three rows back from the front.
And as the song leader began "Jesus Hold My Hand,"
all I could think about: dead hookers and hot dog juice.
Mar 12, 2013
Mar 12, 2013 at 3:46 PM UTC
Today is my "tea drinking day"
I am drinking two cups of tea
Watching the dark grey sky
At the window
While drinking two porcelain mugs
Full of steaming, fresh hot tea
The heavenly spices and aromas
Greet my nose and dance to my nostrils
Either I've got a cold
Or the spices are making me sneeze
But it doesn't matter
Because I am happy
On this cold and dreary day
Just sitting in my recliner
Drinking to mugs full of
Hot and steaming fresh tea
~Marian~
Feb 9, 2014
Feb 9, 2014 at 3:16 PM UTC
We said our vows
in front of a crowd
of well wishers
and family.
We moved in
as husband and wife
and started a life
not in sin but love.
How quickly love turns sour
our wedding rings
they came to symbolise
flings and lies.
How quickly love dies.
The ring now just a band
of cold gold encompassing
a finger filled with hate.
A poison ring,
no longer are we yin to yang.
Yet the upswing to this decline
is that I watch the crystalline water
on a recliner, paid for by your life
Insurance.
May 10, 2014
May 10, 2014 at 2:46 PM UTC
The apartment still smells new
It’s all new
Save for my dad’s recliner
That no one sits in
Not even my dad
But in that corner
It smells like our old place
It feels *****
When I sit in it
At the dinner table
It is in the second thing I open
In a birthday card
A note from my sister
“I know your a grown up and your still here. I just don’t want you to hold back on your dreams because of us. I want you to write books and people read them. I want one day for you to walk down the street and for someone to stop you and say hey you wrote my favorite book. I don’t want you to think you are leaving us behind because you are not. I don’t want you to stay because you think you are gunna miss is us growing up like when I go to prom or if you need to beat up a boy who hurt me cause you can do that from a distance while living out your dreams. I want you to travel the world and for your hand to break from signing books. So live your life with no regrets.
Happy Birthday Jon
Emily”
It doesn’t matter now
That mom is gone
Or if dad dies soon
I can leave
No regrets
Oct 5, 2012
Oct 5, 2012 at 3:47 AM UTC
I sit on our recliner,
Luna bar wrapper on the floor.
My robe is cinched
too tight, a reminder--
your fingers should meet
around my waist, but my ****
and *** should spill out of your palms
because defined curves and wiles
are the definition of a divine
woman worthy of insta-fame,
tumblr posts, and right
swipes.
I'll twist and turn and pose
in front of any mirror, desperate
for a flat-planed stomach and fuller
cleavage, the whole time
wondering if you look at me bent
over the bathroom counter, fixing my eyeliner,
and think that I'm a dime disguised
in a size 0 dress.
If my sides could shrink as fast
as my self-esteem, I'd never crunch
my abs into idealistic numbers again.
Jan 17, 2016
Jan 17, 2016 at 10:11 PM UTC
and the bus windows fogged by human heat became a part of this child, and the wooden roof rot recliner
for summertime phone calls, and the crying neighbor woman’s sticky mascara,
and the hot asphalt became a part of him…the sideways light on the trees fifteen before dark, and the tract
house mazes at night, and the hidden playground underground,
and the blooming jasmine over strangers’ fences…invisible barking dogs…and burnt bike wheel tracks,
and glittered marsh gorgeous and toxic,
and cherry tree lined freeway, and the bitter fruit afterward…and the purple grateful palms…and the
neighbor’s unbloomed roses;
and the car rides to Elsewhere, and the urban self-sufficience envy,
and the free tickets from the out of town hero…and the wild-haired directors pacing preshow
lobbies…and the squirming audience beer-in-fist…and the blush-stained sidelit Cordelias…and
the honest snickers clearing the building into the cold lot still and quiet,
and all the changes of city and country wherever she went.
The red couch, the red rug, the blue kitchen, the dying dog,
The star trek memorabilia, and the dusty book garage, and the overcooked rice leftover…
the weight of guilt, the thought if after all we deserve every ounce,
the streets themselves, and the midnight three block nightmare runs to safeway…and the barbeque smell from not-my-house,
and the ****** children stumbling to the bus,
the brass chimes that fell off the door, and the dead grass backyard blanket, and the overgrown fields
where your dad smokes *** and the heat wave transposed radio, and the bird nest window mold ,
And the lawn flamingos become a part of him or her that peruses them now,
flame retardant,
american canyon: The Gateway to Somewhere Else, hallelujah, hallelujah,
Amen.
Jun 12, 2011
Jun 12, 2011 at 6:27 AM UTC
Through her eyes I see her soul,
And the sadness when they roll,
Her nose as black as coal,
Though sweet as a baby foal,
She has teeth like broken china,
And a tongue like a pink recliner,
Her face like a piece of art,
That was crafted from the heart,
She has ears like paper origami,
That could hear a foreign tsunami,
Her neck forms an arch,
Like a piece of twisted larch,
Her brisket is as deep as the sea,
And holds the lock to my key,
Her legs like a vintage chair,
That walks with grace and care,
She has a body built for speed,
When running she takes the lead,
Her heart races like a lambaguini,
Although It might seem quite teeny,
Her muscles tense like a fierce stallion,
Like an athlete ready to win a medallion,
Her body is so aerodynamic,
When she runs she makes the wind panic,
Her tail swooshes from side to side,
As she holds her head in great pride,
Her coat as black as leather,
And as soft as a ducks feather,
It shimmers like a stream,
When the sun makes it gleam,
Her little dashes of white,
Are oh so pure and bright,
Never will I feel of despair,
Cause I know my best friend is there!!!
May 13, 2014
May 13, 2014 at 5:36 AM UTC
It is hard to say father;
the thought of you stumbles through me when I see
a Gerber baby food jar or a wooden pop crate.
Once you came to mind when I saw a Polish flag
on TV; that is humorous because
the only Pole I know is a pale man at the gym
whose left eye is shaped like a rotten pear.
Do you still burn your fingers when you
fall asleep smoking in a recliner? I hope
you still do not trim your fingernails while
sitting on the toilet stool; that seems so un-American.
Today is your eighty-fourth birthday;
I hope wherever you are you do not think of me.
Aug 31, 2016
Aug 31, 2016 at 7:34 PM UTC
I start chugging Red Bull
From the moment I get up
Popping B12 vitamins
Like they were candy drops
Chase it down with Mountain Dew
Love the way it sparkles green
Also doesn't hurt to have
A little caffeine in between
After my mid-morning snack
Of chocolate covered coffee beans
And after the unfortunate incident
With that screaming elevator scene
I head off to Starbucks
Where it is that I do lunch
You know it doesn't hurt to have
A little afternoon pick me up
I head back to the office
Where we have our last meeting
But not before I get into
One more screaming elevator scene
When I finally do get home
And the cat jumps in my lap
We snooze in my recliner
Cause we both love to relax
Jun 22, 2013
Jun 22, 2013 at 8:05 AM UTC
Has anyone seen my mojo
I think it ran away
I just can't find it anywhere
I've looked for it all day
I even looked in under the couch
Where my shoes will sometimes hide
And when I told my wife it's gone
Well, she broke down and cried
I looked behind the refrigerator
It's been there once ot twice
I've even found it a couple of times
Just chillin' with the ice
I looked behind the microwave
Cause my mojo's really hot
I thought that it would surely be there
But I'm sorry to say it's not
I looked behind the recliner
Cause that's it's favorite chair
But once again, to my dismay
It simply wasn't there
I went into the bedroom
And looked in under the bed
Nope, it's not under there either
So I stood and scratched my head
I even called 911
And told them of my pain
They told me not to call again
And said that I'm insane
So if anyone finds my mojo
Please send it back or call
Cause a man without his mojo
Is barely a man at all
Apr 21, 2010
Apr 21, 2010 at 7:53 AM UTC
"He can't walk, he's on decline."
I was briefed as I clocked in.
an anxious robotic voice says
You have clocked in at 9:40pm
"When I get back from vacation He'll be dead"
I stand awkwardly at the landline phone and stare at him.
between us is the Clients bedroom doorway
The Client is asleep.
"When did he go to bed?," I say after a silence.
"Oh about a minute ago"
Breathing becomes fast and heavy from inside the room.
"I think it's a good time for you to go now"
I say, "It was nice to meet you."
"I'll be relieving you tomorrow morning at 8:30"
He leaves,
There is nothing relieving about this man
eager to back into each parking space
Lusting for his vacation in California
Caring for this helpless old man when I leave.
Architecture rivets as he walks down the hallway.
footsteps echo off the empty fireplaces and yellow wallpaper
no tumbleweed in the darkness outside
only snow wet and black tar.
as he looks in the mirror his wax smile fades into his hairline
I shiver in the recliner at my journal.
I look at the man sleeping past the doorway.
This is my job now.
That man is my future
Destined for a Hospice Heart
Apr 5, 2017
Apr 5, 2017 at 10:52 PM UTC