indecisive and insecure
I am on an edge
no cliff nor rooftop
from which to leap
more like myself
a collection of questions
laced down a ragged page
I take a moment
to pull myself close
to gather myself
into a tighter pile
to tie myself to a series
of questionable knots
strung across the night
with a sense of frivolity
like lights at a garden party
or a noose in a lonesome room
swinging beneath a bare bulb
(March 25, 2021)
At home, they sit across from each other
like a pair of stone-silent gargoyles, when
he sighs to himself as if with remorse.
Looking up, she asks, out of politeness,
“Is something wrong?” He shakes his head, and says,
embarrassed that he had spoken out loud,
“Oh, Nothing, just thinking, at least nothing
important enough to say: just thinking.”
They watch each other with a quiet calm
like the still center of a raging storm;
each happy enough at home not to stir
up any conversations to avoid.
Slowly, they fall into their silences,
starkly alone with their thoughts together.
(April 18, 2019)
“I would always rather be happy than dignified.”
He waits patiently in the parlor
like a forgotten Sunday suitor
as the yellow afternoon drapes
the room in dusty silence.
There is no dignity in sadness,
just sadness, a complacent yawn
alone. He peers from the window;
as the day’s shadows grow deep.
Violently trimmed to partially fit,
he forces his wings into a box,
so they no longer can do harm,
then walks across the room
to sweep feathers from the floor.
(October 31, 2016)