Walk Poem
It’s 9:30 in the morning, and either their early or I’m late.
Heavy high in hue of hate
of remnants of an early rising state.
Cherry blossoms blooming, pink- pale
-Peace. Solemn in stride stale sobriety. Eight weeks clean, now.
Guinivere dreamed her way into a bed of water.
I found her treading the pillows, the mattress
Screaming of a shark, pink-pale.
With human arms. Reaper reaching to right wrongs
I have done.
Wake child. Trauma resides, so we swim the bed
Butchering sharks until the waves are red
And the waters safe.
The day before
yesterday we picked up smooth shells from the shore
Of a
We grinded sand in our teeth, as the wind whipped
Salt gritty strands of hair in our eyes.
We talked of sharks, then, and dolphins.
Guinivere dreamed of sharks.
I went to a meeting last night.
Hippies high on life on the hard flat floor. No carpet,
Just gangsters and businessmen, bawlers and shot-callers
Upright in their aluminum chairs. And yet,
There was myself, young mama
Slouched in pretty pink-pale.
Addiction, they said, an infantile tendency
To clumsily cling to a catastrophic comfort.
The speaker clung to the vertical brass of the lamp
-post. Posing to illustrate defeat due to dependence.
I nod. The hippies twirl dreadlocks into the ceiling
As businessmen tap the faces of their gold watches
Late for dinner with the wife.
Wish I had a wife to wake me in the morning.
