Wednesday
April 11, 2012
There are times when the writer needs to look deeper, reach into his/her imagination and pull out something more... what that more is, is defined by the writer... and no one else... finding that something worth expressing...finding that style that can communicate that something to a large number of readers is a life longer endeavor, an on going struggle for the writer to perfect his/her ability to communicate to the world.
Listen
The evergreen scratches at
the window, growls a sound
not unlike that which sleeping
dogs must make when dreaming cats.
Outside my apartment,
thinned and muddied by a sudden rain,
the last handful of evening traffic wanders by....
A thousand foot thought
quivers in my head like a moth trapped
indoors by the dirty screen
on the only open window in the house....
Yes, a way out it seems but... no, it’s not.
My unkind words chip away
at whatever self-respect I have left.
Your face turns to sour milk.
Once my tongue played with you,
stuck itself outside my mouth to tease
or just to wipe the strawberry ice cream
from your face... You always said that was gross...
then laughed like a little girl.
No laughter this evening as you pack
everything you owned (clothes, CDs, a hair brush,
a number of smelly, bottled lotions I never saw you use),
you cram everything into one small
suitcase, the one with the broken zipper,
everything you loved shoved into leaving,
everything except me.
And my tongue just can’t do anything right,
unreasonably it believes that if it whips you hard
enough you might stay. But of course, you won’t.
In the damp parking lot
a little girl screams with fake fear,
her taller brother chases after her
handfuls of soggy autumn leaves
cocked and ready to do mischief....
But she’s too damn quick witted for that!
She zigs and zags she screams and laughs
and yells, “You better
not!”
But the boy won’t listen.
The same way I never listened to you.—rrw 1-2-12
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