Evaporate… February 23, 2017Posted by vsap in Blogroll, Poetry, Uncategorized.
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You were wearing a white satin dress, sleeveless,
You didn’t expect me at this opening of “Hamilton”
but you didn’t seem surprised to see me.
Smiling, relaxed, eyes alert,
your long dark hair perfect, like I had never seen it before.
I offered my right hand and you accepted it tenderly,
like an old friend, and just as tenderly, let it go.
It’s only a dream, a vision, a shock to the system,
that wakes you and you immediately wonder
why was it so real? How could it be three dimensional?
And how could it evaporate as quickly as if it were never there?
I’m pouring hydrogen peroxide on an open wound
with stitches popping and blood beginning to seep,
at first slowly, then steady, followed by a flow.
I began to hear Ira Glass on “This American Life”
and it is strange since I’d only heard the show promos.
While I rarely listen to public radio I could imagine it.
As I imagine Chicago the way I want it to be, clean
and how the Mayors Daley kept things in line.
It’s a dream, a vision, a drain from my brain,
making me wake and I immediately wonder
can it be real? How is it three dimensional?
And why did it evaporate as if it were never there?
Do I hear “no”? February 19, 2017Posted by vsap in Blogroll, Poetry, Uncategorized.
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When I listen, do I hear “no”?
Is it a radical concept I haven’t grasped?
Or is it like a shovel stuck in the snow,
abandoned, with no future, no past?
I’ve heard the hiring managers say no
And I don’t believe it means “later”;
It means this workplace will overflow
unable to contain my image over-inflator.
When you matter-of-factly say no,
is my request too insignificant?
Or should I simply bask in its afterglow
And acknowledge you won’t, or you can’t?
I am not put off by being told no.
Being misunderstood is soda in my whiskey.
Like a polar bear on an ice flow.
I know I’m there, you just can’t see me.
Who would? February 8, 2017Posted by vsap in Blogroll, Poetry, Uncategorized.
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Candy stuck to Formica,
like it had been there a long time,
but once a house is deserted, unless documents exist,
how can you know? Does it matter who built with Formica,
who left the hard candy in such a hurry, carelessly?
Funny, the floor isn’t sticky, just dusty, some dust bunnies
and cobwebs, spiders shuttling back and forth from
cabinet to floor, never knowing their cousins up by the ceiling
doing the exact same thing in an exact opposite direction.
There is no smell of food or mold, like everything was taken
or nothing was here to begin with, and the light seems to have to
force its way through the dingy windows, half covered by shades.
So whoever was here didn’t dislike the light, maybe they welcomed it,
but when they left it didn’t occur to them to pull the shades.
They had no reason to be afraid of robbers, gave no thought to it,
because they were sure to be back, they thought, so they didn’t bother.
Looking out the kitchen window, facing the backyard, the swing
is intact, the plastic toys, plastic wading pool, plastic stuff,
tells me there were young children here, and maybe girls,
no sign of GI Joe or super-hero figurines, probably girls.
The color on the plastic had faded some so if they left on their own
it was either in the Spring or early summer and it seemed
they believed they would be back, not at some point in the future,
they would be back that afternoon, back for supper, back for bed.
A child doesn’t purposefully leave her favorite toys out, just out like that,
unless they believed they’d be back, no reason to put them away,
So this is what goes through the detective’s mind as he sorts out things.
He doesn’t know the lifestyle or particulars at the outset but he expects,
no, demands, that he get to the bottom of this…this apparent injustice.
Then we become an audience to his procedure,
from accumulated wisdom from TV news and cop shows.
We know why he’d bother to grapple with this, we couldn’t,