Tuesday, September 29, 2020

I guess you call it a butterfly


You watch your boy fuse with a PC, 

the boy you've picked flowers with, 

the boy who now mocks you

the one you think can't be him,

the boy you sat in trees with.


And you are right, it is not him,

this boy a humbug or whatever 

you call a critter that's stopped eating, 

that hangs upside down from a twig, 

that mutates with no aspect of 

a former incarnation.


So you repel the urge to place your hand 

on his shoulder, buck the wish to kiss

his cheek just one more time for

old time's sake, bury your need

to pull him back into the world 

you once were bound in.


You accept that world now lives 

only in your mind.

Sure, he recalls some things-- 

the pictures you show him serve

as proof, like the rings of a tree, 


when once you lifted this boy 

from his crib 

and your lives felt opulent 

and the boy looked so beautiful in blue. 


Monday, September 28, 2020

Get me out of here


The homebody bird waffles

about flying. 


His head snaps right then left, up 

then down.  Undecided. 


No breeze to help extract -

himself from shore, littered 

with taco chips.  


A few flutters of feather sends

him back onto the land. 


I enjoy his feeble indecision and 

keep him in this state by

tossing more chips. 


He seems content chowing. 

Not having to hunt then mince

bugs down his tube. 

He swallows till stuffed then

sits and stares with me 

into the air, together we

stare at this life. 


The seabird 

could do the same

but ignores the chips. 

A driven creature, ready for takeoff 

as if his tail had been scorched 

by the sun.


He must fly to live. 

He wants to work, to feel

his feathers in full sail

straining 

against wind, eyes angled 

at the sea.


I want to be like him, not me,  

always looking down, 

content with easy morsels 

tossed my way.  


I want to be a seagoing bird--

Close one eye, 

raise wide and high

my wings and hit the wind.