Poem | Outside, Looking In

There is this dialect in the language of love

That I hear and see others use

Which seems forever unknown to me.

Though I don't need subtitles to understand it

I need experience to comprehend it.

Photo by Naitian（Tony） Wang on Unsplash

Poem | Under a Sheet

When I die

They will come for me

Carry me out under a sheet and

Wonder what to do with

My cats

My random notebooks full of words

That mean something only to me

My piles of towels and steel dinnerware

The plaid shirts and floral bowties

The ankle braces and walking canes

The daily medications and soymilk packets

The puzzle books and Kindle.

They won’t know what to do with

The memories that hover in each room

And on the balconies and terrace

In the bath and on the stairs

The endearments for each cat

The introspections on identity and desire

The monological battles fought in bed

On the couch and in the chairs

When the neighborhood slept or sped by in loud cars

The moments of desolation and joy

Of despair and wonder

Debates over loneliness or solitude

Over worth and privilege

Over rights and change

The poems that never heard words

The art that never saw color

The stages that never saw performances.

They won’t know what to do with these

Because they won’t see any of it

They carried all that out

Under a sheet

While they muttered about the weight

And wondered who to call

Checked their phones and their lists

For whom else they must pick up

Before they can say

They earned a tea break.

Photo by Mads Schmidt Rasmussen on Unsplash