He was more than just a piston
Brain control seeping in trying to
Creep into his mind what’s the reward
To be eighty years old and prove
“I too can be a hard nose!”
(He exclaimed)
Whoopee.
Life is so condensed fitting
Our parts into smaller and smaller
Shapes and sizes to accommodate
Our lives into finite dimensions we
Float away and around
What brings us back on track?
In the order of all belongings
Tallying before we lay
Beneath the red marbled stone
That reminds everyone who we were
Do they drink tea in our absence?
What is it to be nineteen again
Learning the world before we knew
Anything grasping at love like
We were running out of air
And knowing almost nothing
Except for how to get from
Here to there
Oh and…
How to make out with a pear
I remember having no clue about
How to pick one out the Bosc is
A true delight in which one should
Have a romantic affair
Lips curled around
Delicious juices filling his mouth
But that was college and now
The ground is thirsty again for
Knowledge and experience
Getting out….
He was doing the work to remember
A recompense for painting instead of work
Raised in a jerkwater town
Moving away was like holding ground
In a place where culture was hidden
Until he lifted the lid one thousand
Four hundred and ninety-two miles away
And the incense was different
The smell of the future unlimited to his
Slippery imagination
A train car is running only a foot away
What’s under the hood?
© GÄ
Poétique 