Monday, May 21, 2012

Coping with Rejection

Even a duck loses
feathers, sometimes.

The subtle stink of depression
slipped silently under the bedroom door.
I focused on emails, writing,
putting off packing. I hardly
noticed it, like I missed the fog
sneaking in from the Bay.

When reality diverged from sketched dreams,
I could not cry. Instead,
I swallowed. Perhaps lasagna
or the laundry room beep
will choke me.

The optimist's view:
each sentence is a barb poking out
through this translucent skin.
To anyone who squints,
my guts are visible,
soft and flickering.
To be thus vulnerable is to build a story,
an adamantine armor that relishes
the sunlight at the expense of gamma rays.

Among moldy table scraps:
fetid lettuce
with reddish-brown, speckled crust.
Everyone lets it alone; it's
increasingly acrid.

I enjoy time travel, at least I think
it would teach me something.
(I'm ethical when it comes to time travel,
I won't bet on Giacomo or play the Dow.
My footprints are scant. Barely noticeable,
I won't shake up the world.)
An answer is nestled in the mountains
of India, the glitter of Manhattan, or
elsewhere between space and time.
I'd like to discover it. I think I would
time travel if it was possible, if I knew
I wouldn't lose the question.

I'm glad I told
you how I felt.
If, when you're old,
the latent fear
does fall away
and crust does melt:
then give a call
on any day
of any year
at all.


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