Well, not everything is so simple
To wake up one morning and slip on your dreams;
To close your fears in a cardboard box
And slide it underneath your bed.
Ruminating, you conclude…that you like it this way
And add one more grain to the box.
It will never gather dust—
You are constantly rifling through it.
Leaving, taking, throwing away.
There is room for everything.
By your life’s end, it will be full,
But, for now, there is room for everything.
Leave at dawn this morning!
It doesn’t matter that the roads are different.
Move about—shake the night’s numb discomfort.
And leave while it’s still dark.
Nobody has to know where you are going…
You are all alone; who will miss you…
Believe me, the road will remain the same
Even without you.
Perhaps you’ll make us feel something, perhaps not
But after all, do you even care
You seem to be fine this way.
Speak little so they don’t notice you.
When you reach the road, open your backpack
And let out your disposable yearnings—mark them well.
And well, the cardboard box is still with you…
You never leave without it.
You are in it. Without your mask--your ideally ugly face
And everything is in its place.
And well, you think everything is simple.
The only simple thing is you…

When I woke up this morning
I started rifling through my things—
Rifling—I wanted to find this old grade school notebook.
The notebook on whose last pages I drew you.
You had blue eyes and really dark hair.
I feel like crying when I think about this notebook.
I want to cry for you!
I miss your inky gaze;
I miss your inky black hair.
I miss my dream; I miss those scribbles!
Now, after so many years on this not so meaningful road,
I can’t stop looking in other people’s notebooks, books, even first
grade
readers…
I flip through their pages, looking for my ink woman.