(retelling) hit and run

It wasn’t snowing but it certainly was grey
the way in which concrete reflecting off
concrete reflecting off steel can be &
my knee shot out--a bruise that shook through
The frame of a 70’s Schwin--limping not walking
gasping not breathing
after the accident.

911 took 40 minutes to come &
I wanted to ride in the back of the police car--
child locks and metal
mesh gratings a clear division of
power-- but the police are not a
public taxi service, even for those
with hit & run

busted bike wheels.

response

lab assistant, young with the periodical table in
her eyes, readable & open intentions--protons
rotating around the nuclease at
greater & greater speeds--
element stacked upon element,
centrifuged & distilled to a
small electric spasm.

Now whenever she sees the widower scientist,
eyes to the ground.

copy cat copy

a no homework night for no reason at all
(sleep deprivation builds to lack of attention)
though now I sit down--old desk, green walls--
(the ones i can hear Jared’s music through)
& check my email to find a form let down
(hey that was one of your due assignments today!)
letter with an opening salutation,
(Thank you for your submission to Sigma Tau Delta publications.)
followed by the “buffer zone” to keep me reading
(This year we had a record number of submissions, which made the editorial )
on & on, months I forgot I even submitted,
(selection that much more difficult.)
sent my tiny old poems out
(when i still was writing a lot)
& had hope beyond getting through the week
(more than just repeated patterns)

Hey, remember when I had an original thread?

hey, remember when…

i knew how to start a poem?
read a book?
not plan life around TV?

i took walks in the woods?
pictures of my shoes?
more than just journal entries?

i only wrote dripping prose without punctuation bent over computer lab keyboards before every procrastinated paper deadline outlining the final fall of self crashing into volcanoes of colour or robotic battle grounds?

i had fake glasses?
a desk where there wasn’t crayon writing on the wall or a civil war calendar next to me?
punctuality.

hey, remember when we would post?

hey, remember when...

i had fingernails?
a boyfriend?
three whole months of summer left?

i used to go to the pool?
to the beach?
skipped work?

i noticed the first fireflies?
the beginning of wineberry season?
but not that time was passing?

i knew how to ride a bike?
paint with watercolors?
end a poem?

irresponsible blogger

irresponsible
blogger: hasn't posted since
sunburnt peeled away.

irresponsible intern part 2

irresponsible
intern: she is just
killing time til 5

irresponsible intern
"the power went off at
my house," she said.
"my alarm turned off."
liar.
she hit sleep too
many times, and suddenly
it was an hour later, as
she dreamed about the
boyfriend she hasn't been
talking to for the
past four days.
she gained an hour of
sleep, but is tired already.

percived world

today
the second Thursday of the month waking up at 11
I will transcribe
for my sister still schoolbound at
“a blue ribbon school of excellence”
messy journal entries
“I wish I had a tape player to record the things he says”
cherylin said, who skimmed her pink notepad with stars
that said simply for that day “ego”

twelve pages of notes to self
the first family debacle full of to do lists &
spoken threats
I will edit down & cut to pieces
“shut up before I hit you”
the deadline of forgetting about it
like a real father
& she will probably never read it

why am I wasting time
that could be paying me to lift lumber
for poetry?

real world

today
the first tuesday of the month at 7 pm
i will cover
for the hearthstone town and country,
"serving the upper perkiomen valley for 108 years"
the bally borough council meeting
"we like to keep the meetings short and simple," said brenda,
council secretary, who wore a leapord print shirt
and looked bored the whole meeting

with four pages of notes and quotes
an hour and a half of handicapped parking and
rogue ballpark baseball debacles
i'll write the article tonight
300 words for $30
before the 9 am deadline tomorrow morning
like a real journalist
although they'll probably cut my lead
"the borough of bally council is knee-deep in sludge"

why aren't there internships
that pay
for poetry?