Free verse poem: Spiracles of abdomens (your story)
You, you
You
Almost make me melancholic
But if the symphony hasn’t heard of me
I’ll sit on cobblestone and write by the fence
I’ll engage, with soft-lit edges
Spiracles of abdomens
Golden youth, we marvel like
Ants in solitude
Separated from one another
But not for the entire evening
Not for the rest of our story
A smooth enhancement
A sharp critique
I step slowly, carefully
Catching my reflection in the floor-to-ceiling mirror & readjusting my Chicago Cubs cap
That makes me feel like I’m home
In my skin
For the rest of my story
The white carnations are dying and they look almost more beautiful with acute angles cutting their dismay
I’m out of flower food
But a homemaker nonetheless, I pay tribute to my residence
I glide slowly through the streets on a white bicycle that has
“Seven Peaks” written in a cursive print similar to the tattoo on my right forearm
My tribute to a honeymoon that never occurred
My golden, sporadic sailing through a lake that ends in fleeting desperation
For water
For vengeance
And I withhold apprehension
As I look for a few more moments at my porcelain figure,
Beginning to admire the grace that I emit
On this spinning planet
Where God always knows if you’ve finished your breakfast
And thrown away your leftovers
To remind you of the fact that I
Am here, somehow, with a watch that is more beautiful than I could have requested
The cursive print is like the tattoo that reminds me that
Despondency in your wake is no reason for one to hesitate
An afternoon of slumber is fond of my delicate breath and the weight I put on my mattress as the bedspread confronts the curves of my legs
Dimly tan from summertime by the water
Cold and rotten is the fiber sheath that transcends what I’ve known to be
Detachment from minute frustrations and incidents that in my former being would have sparked marked uncertainty
And I, do, become uncertain
But find a cave to lay my head without needing feathers embedded in satin
On an August day, I am briefly saddened
Because his birthday is coming up and I won’t reach for the telephone
I’ve got to get out of here
I’m turning in western glances and forgetting romance is
Something to complement me, not complete me
A swan lake, a river with no riverbed
Flowers left at the gravesite because I, miss you in ways I hope you know
I hope what follows
Will give me more material to write, always
Reminding me that ants in solitude
Are only temporarily confused
And they find each other in the dark
Complementing each other
For they already felt complete
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