Box Office Slot
emerging
corners
conquests
we seek to rest in yesterday’s sun
we linger and lounge after the race is run
we picked the winners, but losing is fun
arrivals
departures
gateways
we lost all of what we know in a summer’s storm
the hands that cook dinner are the ones that keep us warm
in the midst of old secrets dying, one breath is being born
callings
schedules
seasons
lovers collapse in the arms of freedom captured
crows and car-alarms announce morning’s arrival, enraptured
and the traumatic aging of the day is seasoned with laughter
and we sit and we watch
from our box-office slots
in the morning after
This Small Version of Now
Everything happens “now”.
The Attention Span is “small”.
This Small ….
(as if you know what you want …)
You grew up around the block
on some different corner
but you didn’t really grow up
and all your friends
who were not really your friends anyway
all left for college or took a different train
and now it looks like rain
or it doesn’t quite feel the same
and you’re stuck with one curious umbrella
but you’re self-conscious, and get soaked instead.
and through foggy glasses, everything looks like home
but you feel so very alone
(is that friendship up ahead, or just a different colored bed?)
and you know they want your money
but it’s looking kind-of funny
like you’ve been playing “monopoly” too long
and sold Park Place for a song
and you still don’t know the Real Estate
where you belong
because all Life’s Love
is hidden in a simple song
(and that song is inside of you)
but the broken cookies and colored balloons
spoke too soon
and so, your attention span is small.
“This small”.
(as if you know what you want …)
This Want.
This Voice.
This Train that goes nowhere …
Except Home.
Everything happens “now”.
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