Questions To My Important Boss
March 30, 2012 § Leave a comment
How do you know this is significant work?
What makes you love this?
Is it the money?
The vacations you go on?
Or do you go on them so you can miss this?
I wish I could love it too
But all I see is drudgery
And I don’t understand how every other business man
can speak with authority on all the things they don’t know
and coat their voice with the certainty that they own you
But then again, maybe they do.
Why else would we give so much?
We want their money
like they want our servitude.
Unfair as it may be,
I imagine overweight men with expensive haircuts
on the other side of the phone
And I must make an effort to recognize voices
(“Don’t you know who I am?”)
After all, they have so much
I have so little,
it’s only right I should know.
I don’t love this, I don’t even like this sometimes
but I live in America
I can drive
I can vote
I can sleep with whomever I want
and it’s still not quite enough
to quell all the wanting that makes me head feel like it’s on fire
American Dreams
March 20, 2012 § Leave a comment
A goodbye-kiss on the cheek, a hug for the baby
I’m always late to work, but no one says anything.
It’s dark out when I return, I say hello and pat the baby
I’m home late again, but he tries not to say anything.
I fold the laundry, pack lunches and climb into bed.
He pulls me in close- I sigh softly and close my eyes.
But sometimes, when I hear his breathing change,
I turn around and open them again,
and wonder in the dark if anyone knows how to hold on to things you can’t see,
and ask myself why I must feel this way (as if anyone could love me better than you).
When I finally fall asleep, I dream of birds burning in flight.
In the morning, I hold still and feel the weight of the day needing to start
I sigh away the lingering images–there’s no room for impatient sleep here
I get out of bed; it’s time to start all over again.
Oak tree
January 9, 2012 § Leave a comment
Occasionally though–not always, but sometimes, when the wind blows hard
and the sound of high heels on payment makes my head hurt–
(like today perhaps) the weight of my inadequacy feels crushing
Those days I would like a meadow, or a forest stream,
I would tell them my secrets and they would sit, quietly listening
giving me oxygen, not in sympathy, but soothing nontheless,
perfectly doing what they must,
and the hum of their life would continue, with or without me,
as if to say, “this will pass” because all things must pass and
“what boistorious matter, loud and consuming, can compare to the symphony of our silent song?”
And they would be right of course, my elequently silent oaks
a curved limb bending over like a comforting hand above my head
offering shelter from tomorrow, from
the desk of papers
the weight of time
the confinement of shoes
and for a perfect moment I could be large and small at once
not caring an ounce but loving as deeply as the roots underneath me
woodandhoney 