Stuff
Tall buildings chase me,
onions caress the floor,
the sun plays ping-pong with shadows,
I am grateful for imperfection.
How do memories of beaches
warm your mind?
Does your bed capsize at night?
Your friends call you infrequently.
The world outside denies
your invocations and insults.
The couch captures your thoughts,
the one who loves you
scratches your back
and offers all sorts of invitations.
Dead relatives are faint in photographs,
their voices are more hushed every year.
In winter, burial mounds are confused conundrums.
In spring, birds shout their birthright.
In summer, beaches at night swoon with moonlight.
In autumn, skies are full of regret.
Today belongs to those conspiring,
despairing, the ones hopeful for another voice.
And, when humankind has gone,
the shiny, dancing dinosaurs will return
to white tables drinking their sad tea.
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Stink Eye Magazine 