No fruit for it

I came to trade three weeks of
effort - these things I've made.
I walked from stall to stall
opening my bag and
turning away. At the end
a man gave me four potatoes and
an onion for a carved wooden boat.
I told him with the back of a
shirt I could fit it with sails.
He declined and looked away. A
handful of nails got me
an old pair of pants. I
traded a bundle of rags for
some tea.
I was a whole business of small things.

But I could get no oranges. No pears.
None of the plums.
I could not get anything
sweet for my work. There
was no reward.

I walked home past the dogs
in the street covered in mud.

mourning thoughts

the tired slips
around me like
a large unseen
snake

wrapping me
slowly squeezing

eyes droop
i feel numbed

these last weeks
have taken me

i sleep, fitfully
wake up drink coffee
eat a bagel
get dressed

i try not to
dwell on him not
being here any more
except in my mind's eye

i don't cry, though
i find myself looking
for him

i look at his bookshelves
afraid to touch one
leave things the way they are

let things rest
its too early for
things like that
cleaning out
removing the leftovers
he's still in
those leftovers

so i mourn, in my
own way not with ripping
of clothes or gnashing of teeth
but through thought &
memories

DWC 2008

Another Emotional Train Wreck

With bruised ego she
lies, under layers of blankets
sleep away this day

these days

long walks and short sighs;
retired door buzzers and
empty in-boxes

there's no use facing it:

everyone is gone these days

Converse and talk

Nobody's got the brains; we share between our
fingers. -I grazed your
knuckle when I
reached across.
We shovel sharing.

This is the place
your neighbors are. We've met.
She works at an office and he
does something else.
Their boy ran track and field.
There is more I can remember
if I think.

You make words from what
you know. Talk about wine and
we have aged. Numbers
step outside the clock.

Nobody's got the brains; not
even all of us. Outside the airplane window there's
no ground.
The wings curl off
past the ice.

The Look of Recovery

Some kind of cancer
sat down two tables
away looking like she had
lost weight (but recovering - out
to eat) bandana over
head thin cheeks
and a man with her.
Plates and plates of pasta.
Bread and olive oil.
The restaurant wasn't busy.
After lunch Saturday.

You never know people.
Did not see what car
they drove. We were
finishing our plates and plates.
Paid and tipped and left.

Some kind of cancer, unless I
am wrong. But with the
look of recovery. No one submits
always.

We drove away from the big city into
north highway in afternoon.
Our things were bought.
We drove with cars and cars
away and away from
all
the things of the city.

Like looking into
the windows of
everyone to see
you never know people.

a note to thirdworst...

'don't let it bring you down
it's only castles burning'

- neil young

one of my favorites.

To get here

Maybe simpler, with less words and
things. Smaller thoughts. A level
field. These
things get you here?
Then find here and think
ego gets alone. I'm
only angry at the tally.
Less and less - what should
be more and more no matter what
lands here - less and less.
Our time called the
time of know. Fewer know smaller.
Fewer know smaller.
Always like before.
These things
get you here.