online literature since 2007

Monday, October 1, 2007

maybe today

I’m five years old,
I want to ride a tricycle.
All the big kids ride them.
In Two and threes.

I’m in love with my teacher.
Whenever I’m thirsty,
She gives me water,
And I say thank you.

Elementary school is strange,
But I can run around.
And no one thinks I am weird
I’m supposed to play football.

Jr high and I join the soccer team.
I raise my hand when they ask
“who here played club or ayso?”
I was leaning on that hand.

There’s an “inner-city” kid
Who doesn’t raise his hand,
And I begin to hate myself;
I can see my own eyes.

I’m in high school,
I dropped the soccer team ,
I didn’t practice between seasons,
Running was easier.

Now there are more eyes.
All looking at me.
I don’t raise myself to meet them.
I only feel them, when I judge

College comes along.
I dropped all my sports.
An MD advised it, so
I took that as opportunity

So I go back to running around,
Because now I have to.
Only, it feels like a treadmill
But it helps me sleep.

I’m outta school,
I work in the city,
I sit in traffic,
And can’t make up my mind.

I don’t want to sell my work,
I don’t much like it either.
They say the composition
Really brings out their eyes

It’s been years since school,
The reunion was days ago.
I haven’t decides if my indignant self
Is defensively jealous, or angrily regretful.

I stare out of windows,
Sometimes I think.
About what I should think.
And how.

And now I’ve got wrinkles,
And there are anthologies of my work,
But I couldn’t get myself to write
Anything definitive at all.

So I guess I gave up on definitions,
I have some sort of vague idea.
My eyes just seem to wander around,
Something between that and avoidance.

Maybe I’ll run again,
I still don’t know where to.
Or maybe I’ll get some wheels,
And drive till my eyes close