I used to wonder: it was great.
I used to dream at a startling rate.
"What does he do now?" is an
Insightful follow-up question.
Crouching in this stone-stiff chair,
Weighing every pin-pricked word,
I fine-tune, always at the source,
And swear I'm still a dreamer.
Yet paths we take get narrower,
From plains to plots to houses.
Barefoot at birth, untied at twelve,
Now we stack our shoes in closets.
Through my window, the city swells,
Flexes, moans at bolted seams.
Edges curl, suburbs slide central.
The strip mall's guts will fertilize trees.
I rub my eyes to smear the specters,
My heartbeat staves off dread.
My elbow guides a wisp of cursive,
I funnel the stream in my head.