Everything in its place

the posters attend to themselves,
colours intact,
and the lights burn easily,
artificial insemination of energy
travels along their wires
and the books don't flap -
their jackets prim
their words remain
unread by their owner,
and the clock ticks 6:01 -
a Friday night again -
and on the TV Deep Space Nine -
more American absurdity -
and as I walk these streets
I cobble myself together
with each step,
forever hopeful that my lack
will go unseen
and I stutter my way through
each contact,
feel the talk excruciate
and my fear holds back
my trust from burgeoning
for you are King to all my days,
have power in your hand,
to wave me free or take my
Destiny, unwrap her
or let her be
or in time to come help her
be healthy.
Collected Works
Return to Collections all
next poem