"showrooms" poems
All of us
in various stages of dying and and being born
The mom yet to be,
a four month swell behind her shirt
Dad of 2, trailing behind
tiredness and joy mixed in his eyes.
Girls wrapped in on one another
knots of noise. Giggles and insecurity
Men put together
like showrooms from Ikea
Efficacious, nothing warm like home.
Wives, squint nosed
Clack snap of boots hard against
cultured marble
faces of fluorescent light
Each one placed in retail
somnolence
drug forward in a steady gait
toward that something
We each to his own way
in this place of quick promise
I look to see with only
ambiguity looking back
The old,
moss sitting on hard booth seats
as if being near life
will lead them back to life again
Hats and twill
scarves and purple. Semblance
of then and not again
Then me
a smooth stone washed over
by this flow of person-hood
Unseen but shaped by every current
bearing witness
cocooned in the falsehood of
objectivity.
Jan 20, 2014
Jan 20, 2014 at 12:02 AM UTC
Jack entered centre stage
With a flourish,
And a wooden spoon,
To a stainless steel home,
Gilded in precious metals.
His lineage was confirmed.
He would become
A stationary salesman,
Bent under the weight
Of headboards and showrooms.
Nesting tables would be
His succor.
But, there was a sideline
Of coffins in the adjoining parlor,
And Jack was schooled
In the features
For prospective clients..
Too young for overseas duty,
Jack was an apprentice wanderer for
Forty wilderness years,
Selling, dealing.
He raged,
But never struck out
In anger.
Jack is embedded
In the peripheral.
We don't know Jack.
Feb 18, 2015
Feb 18, 2015 at 10:58 AM UTC