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.