This table supports more
than just my head and a stack
of books. I’m caught in a crook
pulling me fiercely offstage.
Decades rage in the rafters
as the after party reaches climax
and leaves everyone else
obscured in a disappointed fog.
No ointment to alleviate
such lesions. The legions
of false accusations are amassed
on the hills. There’s a quiet thrill
that comes along with all of this,
like kissing a stranger at midnight,
a danger who poses only
the threat of coming to an end.
Lately, I’ve been spending
too much time with myself.
Perhaps I should give
another self a turn. A self
who yearns for burning windmills.
A self who still possesses selfness.
A self who leaves messes
for others to clean.
A self with meaning full
of pulpy fruit.