My god the poems
What they will say
What they will discover
The box that I dare not open
Is chock full of parts of me I don't care for
Unpleasant gulps for air on
Awkward crowded Metro rides
When the right song comes onto my earphones
And I fight back tears that tease my eyelashes
Yet never commit to the rolling down my cheeks
And worst
It contains the only harsh truths about life
That I have no exciting interest in
I glare at that box taunting me from across the room with the bare wood floor
With a blinking-out light bulb swinging from a chain
That exists within my head for moments like this
When I am cornered into dealing
With the undeniable
I am not looking with any sort of expectations
Towards the poems I am going to write
I don't hope that they save me
I don't yearn for answers or solace from them
I ask only that they come when I need them
And that I remain afloat amid whatever
Dark and murky waters might very well
Flow forth in gushes from that dark box
I am prepared to walk, surrounded by everything I can grab
That suggests a constant in my life
And as I look with sighs at my wall calendar
I can see the dates of major events and
Even greater poems
Burn themselves into different days of the months
Floating, but never settling
Always calling me to remember the impending
And take stock of the explanations I have harvested and gathered
In the development
So that I can know
What the retrospective analysis
Will sound like.
