Heated argument
with my four-year-old
over my interest
in his favorite show…
The primary complaint
was
I was too engaged.
Heated argument
with my four-year-old
over my interest
in his favorite show…
The primary complaint
was
I was too engaged.
The early morning warmth
is easy
and does not betray
the heat we’ve been promised
later.
I’m using fourth Avenue
to bisect
the city
into manageable chunks.
The windows are down,
but the A/C runs,
for contrast.
I sing along
to Cat Stevens
and James Blunt,
lowering my voice
at the stop lights.
I’m not always
quiet enough,
however,
and I am overheard.
Twice I see
bobbing heads
and knowing smiles,
gestures of approval
or
understanding.
My voice is not trained,
and I do little justice
to the songs,
but the audience is impressed
nevertheless.
It’s Friday.
I think a lot,
which is to say
often,
about how frozen
I am.
Inaction
has become
an addiction.
But that’s
a lie.
I can tell it
to myself
and buy in,
but I cannot slip it
past you.
You’d sniff it out.
People I admire
talk of taking the chance,
grabbing your desires,
putting in the time
towards what you want…
and I shame myself
by doing nothing.
I know
that they speak
the truest
of truths.
But I know
only the frozen
and trapped.
To want freedom
and be locked up
by my own key…
it’s suicide
but I keep
passing out
and losing the grip
on my own neck.
So every day
I renew the squeeze
one
more
time.