11/07/2024
(finding poetry I wrote some time ago)
Firework Imitations
Marshmallows smell of porcupine spikes.
The water says rinse and reload
so we smile
as we suck and spit
slinky-like, on a bouncy table,
or so we call it,
taking it "to go"
before we stroll down the street,
sauntering and spinning webs of color,
like fireworks made of
something that doesn't fade into nothing
or disappear leaving only the sky.
Instead they are made of shreads of
who knows what?
All that matters is it is a material-it is
something.
So all we say is Yes,
carrying our food in paper bags.
We smell it and it's hot-
but not too hot to eat
so we sit at a picnic table
and gobble it up before we consider
everything.
I think every so often of a man I have known,
but never like this,
never eating take out on a picnic bench in the rain, in the city.
What counts? I start to wonder
as I tally up my life.
Bead by colorful wooden bead,
comparing and contrasting quantities
quickly before they fade
into nothing,
like fireworks and time bombs and
seconds.
Getting some deep breaths in, I count
those, while I stand watching the
fireworks, as if I can feel them
if I mimic them
which I do loudly
putting my fork down eventually,
humming as I walk upstairs,
the steps dusty, the hall hardly lit,
the air cold.
You remind me of nothing and noone
when it really comes down to it-
which is okay because I'm done being
reminded. I'm done reminiscing-
I'm pressing Stop so the Rewind halts.
I'm pressing Fast Forward to skip the stuff I've already seen.
And I'm pressing Play
so I can fall in love with what's in front of me.