A BENCH
Who owns the creek? The raccoon? Or the cat without the claws?
The bench marks the beat before the birdhouses behind the grass. They only have
one riff, but I love it – and I spend my days ignoring it, over and over, while
doing other things besides. I lay down on the long of the bench, my feet still
touching the hardwood floor.
This is the life, the floor, the leavenings.
I’ll spend the weekend doing dishes and learning how to get
places. I’ll spend the weekend watching weekend and weekend. I’ll spend the
weekend reading books that cost me money I don’t have, but I have the books so
might as well make the most of them.
I will think about the people I know and knew. I will think
about the bad and the good, between them.
I will think about the hurt and the comfort, regardless.
I’ll spend my time writing about it, wishing for the well
deep in the well.
I lay down on the bench; I write text messages talking about
engagements; I think about lousy ways of doing things lousily.
There is a whole line of being that just goes on until your
feet are in the ground.
Like a mother, I drink a Kaluha and Cream (skim milk) and
read something nice about something nice.
I send text messages about mutual issues, with a friend some
sorted thousand miles away about friends some sorted thousand miles away.
The bench is barely four feet long. It seems longer, only
depending on where I put myself on the bench.
I look at the birdhouses, so many Christmases ago.
The lens as medium across the long slab. Really, the
reflection in the pixel hue of a total lack of nuance. The reflex is too big
for these countering impulses.
A river of problems, calling attention to the clouds.
Tomorrow is the easy day, so I take a pill to make it come
faster. I start to forget him, but being the painter, there are still blotches
on my hands.
And, of course, there’s always the painting,
pained and perfect as you.
