deepundergroundpoetry.com
Reassembly Required
It's not that I don't have the ingredients
to be a proper man.
A curious-worthy man.
It's that so much is scattered.
How much time do you have...
At the dining table,
forking around with our
April thanksgiving.
Our third date;
No more napkins
covering our laps.
Seems more like the twentieth,
as our disclosures are shared,
consumed with of course's.
Yet one, covered, stainless domed lid;
Do you know I fell in love with you
during conversation?
I kept it to myself,
because it didn't seem to fit in
right away.
So I set it aside, and just listened
-Set it under a pile of routine words
of how our individual days went.
And later, your unprepared smile,
glistening over your coffee mug,
your enthusiasm mimicking caffeine.
Your eyes alight, like two brown tents
of a circus,
yet emitting the thrills
of what's inside.
And I loved you quietly.
Because I didnt want
to stop the show.
When you say "I'm just me".
And all I know is
that it's like saying
that Eiffel is just a tower.
That just sitting here,
we've lived two or three lives out
in my head, each one better
than the last.
And when you ask me
what I'm thinking,
all I admit to, is
that blouse looks good on you.
~
We've killed our fear, of the bear
as it stood crowding us, confused
by our incomplete shadows
in this dim-lit room.
-We're still learning us, as
its wild breath heaves over us.
As I speak, it leans at me
waiting for me to trip up
and I will be eaten by regret.
You distract it, with a sigh.
It can't turn its ears
in two directions,
so it settles back, on its haunches.
If it knew, all it ever says
is one word; Doom.
But it can't digest our glee,
or our intoxication
when drinking from
the fountain of truth.
So it moves on, to go find
someone depressing
and consume them.
Fortunate? We ignored it
so it sauntered away.
Not even playing dead;
Combining our hands
made us twice as big, and
the bear knew it had no chance.
~
Do you know, that
you get prettier by the sentence?
As you tell me what makes you happy,
I'm adding "Me" after every description.
To myself, I check my strengths
and my heart's condition.
I collect the tumors of turmoil
that have threatened me
with horrible endings,
and I drop them under the table.
Scraps. Forfeitures for the bear
if it wants to return some year.
Because I can't predict every detail
of our coming story.
I can. I do.
See your eyes as circus tents.
I don't want to be just audience anymore.
We've whipped our words around
each other, goading towards
a triumphant finale.
Of when that blouse looks good
on the floor.
~~~
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