I find myself frustrated every
Tuesday and Thursday. From 11-2
I sit in a plastic chair while my brain
atrophies and slips through my ears
and nose. I try to use my hands to catch
even a little bit of the grey stuff,
a last ditch effort of self-preservation.
My attempts seem futile.
For the first ninety minutes I stare in
awe at two central figures: rosey cheeks wears khakis religiously,
while the sage is unaware of the kippah lying on his head.
They seem to be searching for the perfect answer
without knowing the question
and they aren’t disappointed when eager students
chirp and flap their wings, preparing for a lift off that won’t come.
I do my best by sitting in the corner,
observing and taking hurried notes through
horned-rims.
Rarely do I chirp or flap, knowing that the others
understand the questions before they’re asked.
A second ninety minutes is almost too painful
and a mighty
flowing down the center of the room.
This Maginot Line divides the students, natives on one side,
foreigners on the other.
A grey headed rooster sits on the edge of a government sealed
desk and asks inane questions,
never expecting an answer.
It’s a one man show.
I participate in earnest here, pulling out all the tricks to impress
and stupefy my young classmates.
There’s no clucking or skittering around here, these spring
chickens know when they’re beat.
Click, click, click
clack. A typewriter in the distance
and the clipping and clapping
resonates in my ears.
Diligently the poet taps and
taps and taps, seemingly
unceasing. What new and
glorious adventure has she
conjured today?
Maybe a story about her
childhood, one yet untold,
or perhaps one of the monsters
in her past or her present.
No, she’ll probably leave them secret.
But what to write, what to write
what to write?
Visions dance onstage
and exit to the left until curtain
call, but none hold the spotlight
and capture the sole audience
member’s attention.
In making an effort, she finally dons the most
sequined outfit she can find and
prances and flutters around until
she’s breathless,
then does it again.
And for what? Certainly not for money,
maybe for fame, but could there be love?
The line is ever so fine, some days she hates
and others she’s obsessed.
Still clicking and clacking, she doesn’t
want to write about love or her distant father
anymore.
She’s grown up and grown out and grown in
and it’s time she shows it.
She takes a step back, examines, sighs.
The only addition necessary is a soundtrack and
a dance routine.
My tiny, purple
your rings have vanished from ‘round
your waist.
You’ve fallen from orbit and into
a parking lot, glass and gravel
stuck in your feet.
This is betrayal.
My pockets have been emptied
again and again and again
on your behalf
and this is how you repay me?
With screeches and halts, a clutch
untouchable?
Oh baby, your mouth has rusted
away,
rotting from the outside in,
leaving behind the clank of a
trailer park.
Hints of nicotine stains your most
middle finger.
I can’t help taking notice as you wave it in my face.
