they’re not all winners
my thoughts, my decisions
I think ninety percent and do ten
still too oft there’s a disconnect
‘tween envisioning and execution
like the clay whale I made
in fifth grade I keep in a box
most thoughts I never voice
skirting the wall for crumbs
is safer than foraying
for cheese on the table
“…to the girl with the mousy hair…” ~ Life on Mars, David Bowie
time and space to sit
parse thoughts into this
and that now and then
marvel at the shape of
things how they grow
in sun in shade in the
crevice ‘tween rocks
where they slunk away
“…nothing to hold on to…” ~ Ring on the Sill, Cowboy Junkies
wake a baby
get sudden dirty looks
then an emphatic sigh
and a flop back to sleep
there is no tit for tat
‘round these parts
pulling out the darkest red
is this what was he saw
or what his desire desired
or puzzled machinations
the artist and their intent
admired then stored
in a box on a shelf
Tahitian Women on the Beach, (1891) Gauguin
most mornings
there’s a man of
indeterminate age
sitting on a stoop
on the street
calling in Portuguese
“um cão, um cão“
extending a palm
focused many fly
by workers working
by waiters waiting
by signs signaling
those looking lesser than
what is deemed of worth
with Birdie tightly close
on her leash lowly
commanded to Hold
her gaze waiting for Ok
the busy street we cross
welcomed by ”bom dia”
and stares from passers-by
as the man of
indeterminate age
sitting on a stoop
on the street smiles
“I don’t do too much talking…” ~ These Days, Nico
pushing forward
pushing daisies
not quite yet
“My existence is a chore…” ~ The Great Hope Design, Sevdaliza
rhyme and meter well beyond grasp
I gave and sold the world
the words I’d learned, knowing never last
coming and going, ticking boxes
on to the next
freedom bought and sold
to the years of labor
it’s realization traded
for a plot of land and home
somewhere with sky and sun
a place to sit and sleep
a place to manifest
space to be alone;
we all have dreams
and ceilings to shatter
prisons to escape
but does it all matter?