life stands still;
I am timeless with no company, no measuring stick of kitchen or toys.
It’s now about whatever I can push
into the empty closet of two a.m.,
in a house full of little (and one big) boys.
I am a predator of minutes; slurping up memory from the corners,
sniffing out tasks from the walls;
A beast stalking quiet: also things never done, and the things never thought,
Tunneling backwards in a suburban vertigo,
I can feel late Sunday afternoon in November
at a rest stop in New Jersey; Coming back from a visit at Grandma’s in New York.
I am fifteen,
and there is school tomorrow,
but only here at Someplace Named for War or History,
do I finally have a few moments alone, and nothing urgent
to possibly be.
Out of place, at peace, bored and alive.
Strangeness a segue to myself. The turnpike always gave me gray butterflies,
the Becoming of it.
It feels like that.
- SKE, October 2004
Get these posts via RSS or email.
Just posts, nothing spammy!