Tuesday, February 15, 2011

You.

This is it,
the poem you've been waiting for.

Yes,
this is the one about you.

Dear friend
who wonders if I secretly dislike you
who hopes I may like you more
who is afraid to not be aligned
with me
Dear Lover
who wonders of my motives
who will tie himself to all of this
with vows and a ring
and perhaps regret everything
everything
Blood relatives
who only read to see if I have mentioned
fights at gatherings
Ex-lover
who thinks we went wrong
Ex-lover
who resents me
Ex-lover
who barely existed

This one, this one, this one
is for you.

This is the one
you can take between the lines
and mull over
sweat over
and analyze.

Peripheral acquaintance,
this is for you,
I value you highly
and we should spend more time
it's true.

Co-worker
oh the things you don't know
how I am tied to our world
how much we have in common
how we differ
how we love.

Bartender, barista,
this one's for you
Waiter and banker
and your extended family too.

Above all, though
and here's the rub
this one's not for me
and none of it was.

Thursday, February 10, 2011

2/9/11 : 4:08 P.M.

There is a television in the cafe
where I wait for my dinner
and there he is, at a podium.

"Says he's not stepping down,"
the lady at the register comments
as she follows my eye line.

"Yeah," I say. "He's clearly an idiot."

"He wants to get shot," she says,
"They'll shoot him."

"Or destroy the country."
I am watching the tidal wave
of bodies
in Tahrir Square
unfurl as the news hits them,
this real part of the story,
just above the CNN banners
which read:

"MUBARAK WILL NOT STEP DOWN"
and,
smaller,
"Jennifer Hudson to Oprah:
I lost 80 pounds!"

Anderson Cooper takes off his glasses;
he might as well be mopping his brow.

Sinking, something in me.

"Ma'am?" says the
lady at the register.

"Yeah. Yeah. Um.
Can I have a Bavarian Pretzel sandwich, please?"