i walk these streets
more known than
the back of my hand
yet a stranger to them both
one is drawn to me
a scribbled path; adventure,
where once Whitman may have been,
Buk with two cents of poetry
far greater than reams of mine
set on a stone step
his temple to advanced mediocrity
i would have listened sagely
then done my own thing
because like them
i don't fit a category
my hand is different
attached somehow,
feeling all the painful whiskers
on imaginary lines
use one finger,
stir my mind,
remove the ectoplasmic residue
my mother said filled spaces
from daydreams and self-willed arrogance
find a man who comforts you,
keeps the restlessness at bay,
have babies, go to work
forget about love
let go of freedom,
it's not yours, it can't be
it's irresponsible
her hands finally touched mine
a silent resignation, she had failed me
out of all those colors
indignant reds, envious greens,
pious pastels i still loathe
she entrusted blue
for a mantra; a plain honest view
where any given pavement greeted you,
worlds not bound by language
difficulty or madness
if you chose them
any more than they chose you
it was right to walk, to search out
eyes that stared back
that smiled even when they shouldn't
so i educate him now
no promise of blue or red
no subject raged against his complexity
i am not a teacher,
a good woman or even a poet
he makes me laugh
and
the student becomes
a muse
with very little left to say
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