home early at last, and free
i unbuckle my belt to ease the bloodflow
crisp fabric of pants
sliding down my quivering pillars swiftly,
kowtowing at the base of two exhausted feet
a human will that enables
flesh, sinew, and bones to become
layers of tender silk wrapped around
a tensile core of steel, almost gone
while taking off my clothes,
i imagine somebody on the bed
hearing the mid-air whoosh, and ruffle,
when the grayish-black shirt hits the laundry pile
with all the other garments that have served
their day's purpose, soon to be washed.
a keen listener squeezed next to me,
for the sensual crescendo
of breaths rising and crashing
like sounds of distant shore closing in,
just right on the other side
of the treacherous dog-toothed peaks
but sooner or later the show falls apart
static emptiness isn't just all too convincing
a mental shadow puppet theater, it's all hollow
like this room cluttered with debris
from another life, obviously not of mine
that i've yet to box up, tape up
and toss into raging currents to set free.
memories don't climb up shoulders
and caress the lead tiredness away,
or whisper words of warmth
that runs down spines like melted butter,
but they are still better than none.
memories are feathered phantoms,
afterimages of naked lives writhing under acid yellow sun,
echoes of little joys that flew from tips of tongues
into sugar-glazed skies
now long since passed, gone
but remnants are still better than having
no signs of life at all.
yet there's a solid mass of hardened fear
having taken root deep within,
a whispering shell speaks to me:
what if it's all hollow and dead
as the slightly-imperfect square
of this storeroom, for all its fault
bent angles and litter,
like all that we have done
just to keep our nostrils above the waterline
for the last 5 years,
all hollow and dead.
