finaid

when you're my age, you'll miss every summer

A welcome respite

From the ringing telephones

And idle prattle of aging women

Is the isolated locker

Of manila records.

Where the gaze of cartoon frogs

And bewildered parents

Hold no dominion,

All that awaits are empty boxes

And pillars of folders

Gorged with wrinkled forms and documents

The world will never see again

Until the cold teeth of the shredder

Opens up real-estate

For the new arrivals.

Yet, the luxury of repose

Is short lived,

And the cold perception

Of the task set forth

By the petite clerk with the gimpy leg

Bashes me across the cheek with its iron hand.

Names and paper

Substitute for creatures of flesh,

But I yearn to alter time

In order to remove the last glass of wine

Or ensure the theater held onto those final two tickets.

Then there would be no student by proxy

Of tax documents and signed release forms,

And, God-willing, no need for me

To haunt these halls

Brimming with chatter of reality television and dead singers,

But there are mistakes that can’t be undone.

 

Reviews

[Poeticpiers]

intriguing I have to wonder what inspired this outpouring