Unlocked.
Morning has been so quiet,
I can hear the humming
of my house-
refrigerator, clock’s second hand,
whirring fan, laptop charging.
My own breath sounds enormous
and when I open a window,
birds scream and the sky laughs with wind.
I stay just inside the door,
unsettled within but not at all sure
I want to go out.
Moving freely but days ago,
shivering in place now.
I would like to tuck away
these times in-between.
Hampered by margins
entirely of my own making,
I stare at my Converse
for hours
while listening
to sounds of a faraway city.
I am surprised to find
it’s after 1pm
and I haven’t gotten anywhere.
The dually was perched
on the lip of a gully,
door open,
lights blinking,
engine rumbling in place
and the man in the wife-beater
paused long enough
to piss and think how pretty
the puffy clouds looked –
like breasts laden heavily with milk.
As he shook his last drops,
he hummed
part of a Smashing Pumpkins song,
not aware he was skewing
lyrics to fit:
“Yesterday’s just an excuse away…”
He had left her
mixed up
in a lime green velour blanket,
sticky and splayed
at the motel off the old logging road.
“The earth laughs beneath my heavy feet…”
He had long ago
thrown up his hands
to any thought of choice,
letting women tell him where to go.
The fucker was happy,
thinking of breasts and home.
“Supper’s waiting on the table…”
whether it all matters
or none of it,
the swirls always seem blue
and the nights not quite long enough
No mystery or sin
in the minutes
behind
(where the garden was left untended)
– there’s a bit of freewheeling
in the comfort
of yesterday’s patches –
but in the refreshing sting
of Now,
only time seems to abandon
as we linger
overlong perhaps
but oh so syncopated
in each other’s arms.
The Word Rummager 