Dreams of Convenience
frozen finger
lakes akimbo in the quiet north
hidden from a rogue wind
six inches below
my zipper stuck half way
and i can’t tell
if the silent excitement
under foot
is anticipation of spring
or joy in the moment
unseen
i left
a sheet soaking
on the line
until january
and when i went
out to reel it
in the solid square
did not fit flush
through the front
door
you don’t see her
stare skeletally
past the crack in the glass
that leaks her heat
outside
into the teeming tomb
of the frozen lake
when you place your napery
and sever
the rare filet
she opened
her notebook
hoping to pen the poem
she’s been composing
for two years
reciting lines
every morning
driving to work
but when she finally
wrote the words
on the blank sheet
they didn’t look
they way they sounded
falling from her mouth
at 70 miles per hour
on the state route
so instead of rejoicing
she spent the morning
mourning
the loss
of her favorite
line
dreams of expedience
toys ramshackle
elastic bands howling at the hips
of lunchtime gaits
crosswalks chalked like barcodes
driven over
endless
steering wheels
the last constant clutch
in the face
of forward
dreams of convenience
winter 2016
dreams of convenience
stores ransacked
plastic bottles pouring at the lips
of parking lot grates
jaws locked like car doors
frozen over
fearing years
of snails in our cereal
and flesh
as the meat
we wear
i bore myself
deep into the ravine
below the snowbank
in my white coat
lower and
lower
until i don’t know
where my bones meet my clothes meet the snow
and in the lightening
dark my womb expands
extends upslope
into neighbor rachel’s house
where she stands
with her two dogs
cornered
in the cold
kitchen
on wednesdays
when your coat loses
hold and the cold chokes
your throat
where once
was savory consonance
now slows
into a floe of
round numb vowel sounds
a chorus of frigid
staccato and lipless
legato vibrates
a stack of coldplay cds
off the
shel
i place my face
against the frozen pane
expecting yours
figured behind the frost
and ground receding
with the hairline
now freckled gray
and distant
i was
so young
when you
were me
i stare
into the street
from my heated house
but i can’t see
through the fog of snow
the cinder mailbox
or even the generous streetlamp
that has fallen asleep
inside its own cove
sometimes i wonder
is everyone else asleep
it feels that way sometimes
when andrew’s play is on the radio
i wonder
why am i so moved
when i know nothing
of classical
music
