Sometimes

 

                                   I see how it’s going to be

 

Always

 

                                   A vision reminiscent

                                   Of dusty places waiting

                                   For me

 

Often

 

                                   Clouded by the cataracts;

                                   The cars floating by

                                   With fogged windows

                                   From my own breath

                                   But

 

Sometimes

 

                                   They drive into the shadows

                                   Of people wandering

                                   The sidewalks:

                                   Breaking on the walls

                                   I picture so perfectly

                                   They cannot fall

 

Always

 

                                   Inhaling the cynicism

                                   Exhaled through

                                   Their unknowing nostrils

                                   That strip the love

                                   From my sleeves

 

Often

 

                                   The front seat driver

                                   And I the Back:

                                   Merely the hand

                                   That places the pieces

                                   According to his will

 

You

 

                                   Don’t feed him to me

                                   At all

                                   So I wait for you

                                   To find the things

                                   You forgot in that

 

Place

 

                                   Where the flowers

                                   In their growth

                                   Stopped

                                   And are waiting as well

                                   For you to brush

                                   Silently past

 

My

 

                                   Rainbow dissipated

                                   Over your house

                                   As I watched it

                                   For a tad too long

                                   Against the reflections

                                   Across my

 

Hand

 

                                   Upon hand

                                   In every line;

                                   Ironically stuck in a way

                                   It’s not supposed to be

                                   But all the same

                                   In a better way

                                   Than it was before

 

For

 

                                   I know you see evil,

                                   Hear it,

                                   Speak it-

                                   “If we’d all stop trying

                                   To be happy,

                                   We’d have a pretty

                                   Good time”

 

Me-

 

                                   I would leave trying

                                   To the flowers

                                   That cannot grow

                                   And let the works-in-progress

                                   Meander

                                   While the nothingness

                                   And the somethingness

                                   Becomes what it wills

                                   Me to be