Small World

The adventures of a small world.

A clock ticks to two a.m.

And Taco Bell awaits.

Her eyes are flint and steel

On a dim morning

All for another concoction

Of modern hormones and chemistry.

And we go

Setting sail in a rumbling LeSabre

Too ruined for comfort

Too old for emancipation

Untrusty steed, for adventurers

Of a small world.

She drags my hand into the bushes

The concrete path fades

With the urgent steps of joggers

And the yawning mouths of babes.

Trash litters the ground

A Wal-Mart bag, a Red Bull can

Bits of foam

And an empty pack of Morley’s.

The ground is muddy, thick

With dead leaves and churned soil

The smell of rot touches my lips.

The trees are dirty and wild

Hues of dry green

And wilting brown

Comes the end of summer.

She kisses me

Under an oak

And we both go home with ticks, pioneers

Of a small world. 

We go to a movie that smells

Of empty hands

And dull phone calls

And a stand of rotten tomatoes.

And in the darkness her face contorts

In sadness and hope,

A silhouette given life

Pleasure and pain.

Alone in darkness

We laugh together

The best performance of her life, dynamo

Of a small world.

A Valentine’s Day

Santa took off

For all the ice in the North Pole, lacking still

Cold hard cash.

And yet finding

In the cupboard, tucked away

Macaroni yet unused

Waiting all its life

For its partner, Glue.

Together they make

A perfect portrait

Of all I ever wanted to be

Under the hand of the artisan

Of a small world.  

And the line stretches on

The demesne of wife beaters

And gaudy gold jeans

And obnoxious vermin

Running amongst the knees

Of people who would rather be

Anywhere else but here.

And she gives them stories

Gives them kingdoms

And tragedies

And romances

And reasons for being who they are

Reasons for being here

More reasons than they’ve ever

Given themselves.

And I brush

The palm of her hand, author

Of a small world.

And I lay down to sleep

Eyes red

From a river now forgot.

And she blows on my ear

Without words, wishing me

An escape

Not here

Even with her.

A place for me

For who I am without her, angel

Of a small world.

And the stone is raised.

The words are cast.

The ground is cool.

Monument to an adventurer,

Of a small world. 

Author's Note

Criticisms especially helpful. Still trying to decide if this is what I want for this work, or if I want to take it in a slightly different direction.