Absenteeism

six menu options
three toolbars
fifteen quicktip options
four open applications
one scrollbar
one mouse
one blinking cursor
two hours left

A Poem for Quitters

I don't want to know so much
about your life
who you are
what you think
how you fold your shirts
what kind of soap you use
the color of your eyes at twilight
that secret smile you have
when you're trying not to laugh
how you feel when someone
yells at you
whether you are a good friend
or a bad friend
how many times you've been drunk
who you've loved before
the kind of lunches they served
to you in middle school
because if I know these things
and I know who you are
and I love you
but you don't love me back
my heart will break
it's breaking
no, it already broke

stunning surrender

you're not happy
it shows on your face
everyone can see it,
even the one
who helped you
reach this point

and you're open
like a body on the table
naked
and you can't cover yourself.
you lack the strength

you look
only at the ceiling.
you try
to ignore the shame
the confusion

you fail at polite
conversation
your mouth is
always dry
people are afraid of
your agony
and leave you alone

you tried to leave markers
bread crumbs
on the trail
that brought you here
but you can't find them now
they've blown away
or were eaten

you are dizzyingly alone.

and, perversely,
in the quietness
of this isolation
you feel a smile start
just inside your mind
and another
in your chest
aching and twisting up
to your empty, carved face.

it's not joy and
it won't reach your eyes
for a while yet.
you still have a day or two
more of this pain.

but the smile is there
and it won't go away.

Poem for the Bus

I wrote a poem for the bus this morning,
but I can't find it now.
maybe I dropped it between the seats
maybe it's still where I sat
by the window.
maybe it fell into the street
as I got off the bus
or perhaps it's still
there
in some deep corner of my bag.

Embrace

I fold my napkin on my knee
and sink into the plate,
the cup, the tea,
the sparkling wine,
the candlelight,
the well-planned night
and resist the urge to see you
smile at me.

my black dress strap has slid
my shoe makes blisters on my heel.
I watch you as you kneel
and hold a velvet box to me:
will you
would you
could you
marry me?

of course I could
I would I will
what difference will it make,
I wonder,
since we're made for hurting others?
So here's to us
and all our blunders;
we'll make each other pay,
we each will say
words we wouldn't want to say.
And I'm sure it all will work out for the best
although you've yet to see me at my worst.
Who's to say you'll even love me
when you see me less than lovely.

The glass of wine
is holding light
and suddenly I know
the answer's 'no.'
I cannot say it though
and so
I nod my head and smile
relieved to turn another
of nature's corners.
And we embrace,
as foreigners.

Degrees of darkness

upstairs a cough emerges unscathed from the hall
a sadistic strip of light shows from the edge of the window shade
sickness needs its space
and privacy is its own reward
blood-red and baby-blue look the same in the dark
dangerous with her eyes
closed, curled up in front of the
flat walls:
blank and clean and willing

Whistler's Mother

Schopenhauer was on the news
and Schroedinger
and Chopin
and Schultz and Scherwinski
all of them
on the news
bit off more than they could chew tonight
I wasn't paying attention

upset fruit basket

you're off the clock
you can go home
you don't have to be here
you don't have to stand there
you don't have to look at me
you are free
you are not in love
you can run out
you can walk out
you can crawl out
it's over
the timers run out
the door is opened
you are free

around noon

escalator equals mounting debt
second level beckons
but she's not beaten
gonna beat this mall yet
sloppy-lopsided doll
swisher sweets, ripped up jeans,
stunted sleep-face marinated in
lipstick kohl-pencil pusher
two for one earring sale she
hears the air around
the music around
the voices around her
and her child
the air that is
around them all
around the mall

around noon.