tonight's poem

recovery



stone galoshes in the corner,
why don't they pick up
after themselves? alright, the acrid
air of the tunnel. okay,
the shiny new train and pressure,
letting off steam. i'm sure i know,
even if i don't remember, and i don't
only mean that in a sexual or scientific way.
i walk days around a broken toy.
i walk and disperse. there are
poems written about this, but this
isn't one. i don't have the time for
the story of my life, you understand:
i don't have time. the unsculpted stones
taken from the cold water of the river.
children finally lift me, no longer children.
my head gone from the blast,
check myself in. i don't have the time for
more than one miracle. by god
she made it good.


~


7 15 06