Sunday poem

Staged

A life spent on squared off stages

Brightly lit, glassed hair salons

Kitchens, conference rooms, coffee shops.

Everyone gets watched.

It’s always such a performance

Touch up, tummy tucks, airbrushed

I’d rather be off stage

In the shadows

Cloaked by velvet curtains

Cutting unwieldy curls by feel

In the dark recesses of the few. 

Here we know to whisper,

Lined faces bruised or shadowed.

We’re all ready for our cue;

Unkempt, unlit, unscripted.

10/22/19

Poem

Poem #7

This poem won’t fix everything.

It won’t make it hurt any less.

The wound will heal at its own pace

Rinse, clean white gauze, wet to dry.

Eat well, nutrition, rest

Sleep when the sun sets.

It takes time.

You must fill this empty space

With words and lines 

While you wait.  

Those old jagged scars

Are markers of time

The spaced minutes

On a clock’s face

The hash marks etched 

Into the gray wall of your solitary cell

10/3/19