Missing You in the Twenty-First Century
What it's like when you're not here:
the ancient mariner in front of a crowd,
my "water water everywhere" routine
evoking no sympathy,
finding no one who can relate.
My house is the property
of a skittering rabbit
whose flash of tail I see occasionally
but who refuses to be caught.
And conversation with myself
has such a nasty, ear-ringing tone:
tinnitus for the lonely.
Small buildings are now tall.
Sunset arrives with an unfair quotient of bugs.
Every flower in every vase
stinks like an aquatic plant.
Wind can't help but be cold.
Tears freeze on cheeks
like ice on leaves.
My nerves pass all discomfort on to my brain.
Life is random, bitter and inconclusive.
But at least the knife is sharp.
And. it has a razor for a son.
My skin, my veins,
dare me to enter their maze any time.
So I will do away with myself
until you return.