A Kind of Confessional Poem

If only we were always in the mood to write poetry –

the delicious alertness and meaningful pacing,

pen flying like a sonata across the page’s ink smudges,

the white space un-annoyingly oratorical,

the words lean, angular, and piercing

like a wolf’s eyes.  He stares at you

for a second, skulks away. 

If only I could prove my love

by performing an amazing magic trick,

pulling blooming yellow roses,

heads first, from the barks of birch trees,

feeling the petals on my right palm,

the grey-white bark on my left. 

If only my Mom wasn’t sick,

and the lag in her speech

signified something different,

a zen-like awareness

greater than language. 

If only it wasn’t 4:30am,

when gray-blue ghosts

ding past like numbers

on a gameshow counter.

“You’ve won a new outlook!” 

Which you assume

by pulling it on like a visor

or rocketeer helmet,

as the audience claps blandly –

“secure the front panel, please!” –

and, as the ceiling opens up,

you blast into the dark outer ether.

There you hover,

bobbing slightly up and down,

alone with space, like a man

ice-fishing on Thanksgiving,

whistling a song about loneliness. 

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