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stork daddy
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some minutes in the shower after washing my hair,
this is who i am now.
that's what a mirror says.
a clock says i have apparently
forgotten the time important to others,
never learned the time really important to others.
This is not the boy who would
find accidentally the eroticism
in an old t-shirts possible motions
a push a pull a straightening, at the
wind startling the oldest trees,
who would roll shame between his fingers for hours and play with past and present in promises he could make to himself and break now or keep later and make meaningless.
Untill a voice he learned to hear himself would call to dinner and he'd shout, I'm coming.
as past and future exchanged places
repeatedly untill the present wwas unbearably real.
I am not the boy who was a piece of art, who grew impatient as he learned
that whatever he was it was never soon enough. The escape of the subtle became
a mountain, its lonely trees blowing in the wind and me passing unbothered
by the significance as if i'm not a poet if i don't have a pen, as if this old t shirt doesn't move that way anymore, is besides the point.
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020729
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