Brown.. Brown..
Settle down, lest you drown, or
Run aground
A moment's whiff
Might find you nude
But not for lacking
Any good. Brown?
Brown, settle down, or
I can see you
run aground
But as you gaze
Out past the mound
Enjoin the crowd,
"Come!" Bid them, "bow"
Brown.. Hey, Brown,
Look around
Your walls have all but
Fallen down.
My Golden Pothos strives so hard, to
Grace the sun-dappled Persian rug
With elegant tendrils, she senses her world,
Exploring beyond her small side-table
It's almost as if she'd no idea, that
Once her soft leaves reach the floor
I'll cut them off
Replant them anew
Maybe in another room
Beneath another warm, bright window
Where the process will begin again
This is how it has always been
Having been born, was the primary sin.
I think I'm dying, and
Not in the way that we all are
But maybe
Exactly in the same way that we
All Are.
I think I'm dying, and
I can't explain, but it's a
Sense of the end of things, and it's quiet,
But nudge-y
I think I'm dying
And, the
Air outside is dense and
Hot, and almost orange like gaseous lava,
And from my window today, I can
Barely even make out the Krayot across the Bay
I think I'm dying
But right now, ice is
Noisily cracking in a sweating glass beside me, and my
Cold coffee is just, *chef's kiss*
And as of yesterday, my
Nails are all painted "Cherry-Pop Red", (both hands and feet!)
I think I'm dying
But this morning I got a
Text, that some package from Temu is
Awaiting my pick-up at Hop Li, and
On my livingroom wall,
The sun, through my partially shuddered window has drawn a
Perfect rendering of the tree outside,
Where the fruit bats hang, and besides,
Just yesterday, in Shufersal,
I finally bought a new bag of a
Shabbat candles– a hundred of them
They only last 4 hours, but
Who'm I trying to kid?
These days I've unfailingly
Eaten, and am in bed, long before
They'll burn themselves out.
I think
I'm dying, but maybe
I still have some surprises left to look forward to, and
Even if this annoying sense is right, and
I am dying,
My plants still all need watering
This summer's heat has been
Hard on them, too.
All these things that were
Left behind
My mother-in-law's wedding ring,
(a strange, egg-shaped silver thing)
My Dad's watches, and
The fat black fountain pen that always leaked
The Beatles records
For whom at least one,
They'd stood on line
On a Winter, Pittsburgh sidewalk
Waiting to buy
(my Mom's fat belly
Protruding from her coat
already with me
And this poem inside)
Books whose spines had been
Silent friends
Eventhough their stories, re-
mained obscured
Oil paintings, and sketches
And a brick-red bust
From my Mom's
and/or Dad's university friends
These things, too carelessly, swept aside
Breadcrumbs that I've
Left behind, can
Never again
Lead me back
And there is no "back"
And at any rate
were all too sweet
for the birds to resist
Or the transatlantic winds
To allow to persist.
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