Tuesday, September 21, 2010

Pass(h)erby.

Do not walk so fast
that you lose their faces.
They are the world
for which you live.

Two eyes may stare
as two others pass
and never acknowledge
the soul passing there.

You race the crosswalk,
they cross the sidewalk;
you obey lights and
resident rules.

She was yours, somewhere,
if iris found iris;
but he glanced at Heaven
and caught her spark.

(Do not walk so fast
that you lose their faces.
They are the world
for which you live.)

September 21, 2010

Sitting on a Park Bench.

I feel like
I look like
the girl who's
always waiting
for someone.

(But maybe
I am.)

The metal
park bench with
its arm rest
inconveniently
welded down the center;
a barrier,
like no one could join
even if he
wished.
(Or if he did,
he would sit very,
very close.)

All or nothing:

Options with no
leniency for we
Grey Areas.

I go places like parks
or the second table back
from the door
at the coffee shop
as if some epiphany
will tilt its head toward me there
and tell me

You like your independence.

But I have never felt
quite refreshed
in the Alone.

I get self-conscious when
the man jogs by
or the woman sits across from me
with her high heels crossed
on a scuffed commercial-grade floor.

I feel like they all read me.

The girl,
waiting.

September 21, 2010