Skip to main content

I don't know what they want

I don’t know what they want so I offer cookies and lemonade
I don’t know what they need so I proffer sleeping bags, toothbrushes
I don’t know who they are so we start introductions
I don’t know where they came from so we start drawing maps

I don’t know what might be useful so I start pulling things out
camera bags, wooden trains, tiny Lederhosen, broken easels
I don’t know what might be dangerous so I pack things away
sharp tables, Ethiopian daggers, rat poison, bleach

I don’t know when they’ll be back so I wait
I don’t know when they’ll be back so I wonder
I don’t know when they’ll be back so I start vaguely doodling
I don’t know if they’ll be back so I pack up to go

I don’t know why it matters but some things make me mad
so I try to remember: one foot, one day
I don’t know why it matters but some things make me sad
so I look for the music, I wait for the sunshine

Oh I am the desert and those thoughts are like tumbleweeds
I am the sky and they skitter like clouds
if I can be patient, there will be a tomorrow
if I stand stock still, the world will come back around

I don’t know how to stop. I see gongs and masks
I see flowers dried back when the world was still breathing
I don’t know how to stop. I don’t know what might be useful.
I don’t know what might be dangerous. I don’t know what they need.

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Small pleasures (landays)

There comes a time when the well rings dry When the mothers and fathers live in empty houses When the day turns an unseen color When the letters we send shred themselves to confetti There comes a day when the trees grow tired A time when my bones walk slower than my memory When the signs don’t know how to read me When the comfort I get comes from counting surely down There comes an hour when we just stop short When the world streams by in all its hot cacophony There comes a moment when all is well The pebbles are smooth, the babies are rolling fatly When the roar of the unthought, undone Lets through ribbons of song from the basements and attics
Post a Comment
Read more

even better

even better than the writing is the not writing even better than the rooms are the hallways even better than the fingers are the missing rings even better than the cookies are the empty greasy spots on the baking sheet how will I know, she wondered, and her backache said, just start but where should I start, she said, and her sore feet said, right here and when do I stop, she asked but there wasn’t a good answer even harder than the aches are the wants even harder than the fists are the open hands even harder than the waiting is the being even harder than the trees are the countless, nameless, hopeful flowers I walked over a bridge, she said I opened a letter, and I learned something new I closed a book, and I missed so much I sat on a bench, and I laughed even older than the sense is the nonsense even older than the aches are the hollow rooms even older than this poem is the waiting even older than the end is the constantly shif
1 comment
Read more