I Miss

I miss the days
when I didn’t miss things so much.
My father’s voice in the next room.
My mother’s cool hand on my forehead.
My first solo drive in my first shitty car. 
The record store on the corner.
The bookshop downtown.
The few true friends
I knew in high school.
The snake bite of first love
that followed.
Days when I thought I knew everything.
The shock of discovering
I knew nothing.
My son’s first wobbly step.
My daughter’s first blurted word.
Days when I was too caught up
to notice the speed of it all
slipping away.

Homage

One bright day I stood alone
on a school playground
twisting blades of grass
in my child-sized fingers.
Then suddenly, a hot jolt of pain.
Yellowjacket strike!
Soon my finger swelled to twice its size.
Then it was my eye.
Later, I overheard someone say
“You know, he could’ve died!”
But I was rushed to the hospital
in that old green truck
driven by the red-faced teacher nobody liked,
but who’d somehow taken a liking
to the shy kid slouched behind a desk
near the back
who’d not once raised his hand in class.

Inside Out

Draining the last of my coffee,
I glance up at the big silent clock
hung high on the wall,
its spidery black hands creeping
with unseen velocity towards 4 a.m.

I sit and watch
my minutes bleed out
in a pool of luminous silver
while corporate propaganda
videos drone on in loops
to the bare cool room.
Ask me what it feels like to be invisible.

Telepharma

Woke to the sound of rolling thunder,
eaves dripping softly outside
the bedroom window, and something else,
strange murmurs from another room –
a chattering television left on,
peddling drugs again;
pretty pills with pretty names,
warm lighting, and sunny actors to sell them.
Then the disclosures; an obligatory list
of potential horrific side effects.
Drugs for everything but no cures.
Drugs for everything but the soul,
numbed instead
by this relentless cheerful dread.

Dreams Of Motion

Another muddy spring in a dead-end town.
From the old Victorian on the hill,
it’s possible to glean a brighter perspective
as the blood-red tulips in the garden
drip their dew at your feet.
Enter the gated woods.
Follow the path to the overlook.
Far below, the little toy town,
perfectly quiet and still,
morning fog lifting its veil
over the grey green valley
sprawled out before you.

Suddenly, nothing appears half as bleak.
you might even suspend your disbelief
for a moment or two and imagine flight,
wings in the shape of wheels, some sun-drunk afternoon, windows down,
blazing through those distant hills
toward unknown destinations
as the old dreams pick up speed again,
heart-pounding acceleration,
blinding forward motion.