A Preference for the Madness

when I see a man alone
in a shopping center parking lot
flailing his arms like a dry land drowning victim
I expect him to be insane – or engrossed in a manic episode
but all too often, he’s simply wearing a tiny telephone earpiece
quoting disappointing sales figures or bickering with his girlfriend
and the closer I walk – and as the truth sinks in more deeply
the more certain I become that I’ve somehow been cheated

A Poem

Here’s a poem I drafted years ago and have revised a number of times since.  So far, no publications have been interested, but more than one friend has singled it out as a favorite.  It’s not for me to say if it’s any good; I only know it’s true.

 

Reverie

a brief examination
of tree or flower
and the way that
any living leaf will
lean toward light
through icy dagger wind
or blinding sand oblivion
into the sun’s embrace
tells all one needs to know
about the way to live
and why the poet sits
before blank pages
waiting

 

IKEA: A poem in progress

Not like that girl in that book
that became a movie with Natalie Portman
she had nowhere else to go
so she slept in a tent at Wal-Mart
No, I mean I want to move
out of my apartment today
into the land of name brands
I can neither pronounce nor understand
I want to live at IKEA
Bring me a life
where the beds are always made
and the most challenging of choices
lies between the two shower curtains
and their polka-dotted patterns
I want a life
that’s easy to assemble
full of color-coded parts
and an arrow to follow
when I lose my way
Bring me a life of designs
full of long clean lines
where every exchange begins and ends
with the promise of sugar and cinnamon
I want to live at IKEA