Saturday, September 25, 2010
Second Person in the Morning
The morning always works slow.
You wake up and have no idea
what to do with it, any of it--
the sun, the breeze, the traffic
pouring down the road like mud
through a miner's wooden sluice
another accident, another incident
another reason for you to leave
this town, this state, this smog cloud
hanging over a dead-dead city.
"See the world," your dad told you
half an eon ago, over english muffins
dripping butter and raspberry jam.
"Have an adventure, I wish I had
when I was as young as you are,"
And you remember hoping fences,
running from the police when parties
got too loud for that urbane shithole
that your hometown could be...
Remember standing on stage at the
Palladium, guitar in hand, told the
woman from the radio station you
would do anything, anything to get
a song played... "Eric said he's
going to strip for us tonight!" she said
and all you could do was hide behind
a Marshal stack blushing the color
of raspberry jam, slick with butter...
Remember the night she told you--
she of the wild North American gypsy
brown eyes so intricate with care
and laugh lines that you had no idea
what to do but gaze back into the
labyrinth of wonder and complexities--
she told you she would love to have
your baby if that was what you
All you could think of then
was what you want...
All you can think of now
is what you want.
And now, in the late morning
as the fire of the east has risen
behind gray haze
and smog clouds
finishing breakfast with your dad
you can't think of one adventure,
accident or incident~
that has not already happened.
You sit down to write a poem
and all you can think of
is what you want--
and what to do with it all.
And only now do you wake up,
truly see the world in this new light.