(no subject)
first poem i've written in a while. hope all is well with everyone.
College Graduate
He slides his tongue across his teeth.
He would like to brush them but he hasn’t eaten anything.
He convinces himself that this is stopping him.
He wears the clothes he found crumpled on the floor,
the outfit he wore for gym class in eleventh grade.
He finds it acceptable for days he never leaves the house.
It is stiff and stinks of yesterday.
He overlooks the lawn from the patio
and tries to plot the most efficient mowing course.
That is the only mystery of the summer,
aside from the reason he returned.
***
The Texas sun baking the garage,
swelling the walls like yeast;
the crack along the foundation.
A pair of crows
eying him from the patio;
what he believes are sparrows
pecking at the unmowed grass.
A bench from his childhood,
shaded by a slender Crape Myrtle,
drying white at the grain
and splintery to the touch.
The shed skin of an alien palm tree
writhed like beef jerky in the lawn;
the grass spilling over the guard rail,
sprouting like weeds in the jasmine.
Leaning his weight into the mower,
he ponders the symbolic value of these things.
He doesn’t know why.
Perhaps to pass the time.
Perhaps for something more.
He still half-heatedly believes
there’s more to himself
than he will ever understand.
***
The sun has soaked into the tied-off garbage bags.
He cradles the searing plastic to his chest
for as long as his skin can bear it.
He feels at this he has improved.
He freights the bags to the curbside.
The plastic wears thin under his fingers,
stretching down like putty.
He feels that it is too late.
The grass spills onto his feet.
He hears the front door open.
His younger brother calls him
and asks if he’d like some help.
He wipes the sweat out of his eyes,
shakes his head, and starts to pile up the grass.
He forgets to thank his brother for the offer.
College Graduate
He slides his tongue across his teeth.
He would like to brush them but he hasn’t eaten anything.
He convinces himself that this is stopping him.
He wears the clothes he found crumpled on the floor,
the outfit he wore for gym class in eleventh grade.
He finds it acceptable for days he never leaves the house.
It is stiff and stinks of yesterday.
He overlooks the lawn from the patio
and tries to plot the most efficient mowing course.
That is the only mystery of the summer,
aside from the reason he returned.
***
The Texas sun baking the garage,
swelling the walls like yeast;
the crack along the foundation.
A pair of crows
eying him from the patio;
what he believes are sparrows
pecking at the unmowed grass.
A bench from his childhood,
shaded by a slender Crape Myrtle,
drying white at the grain
and splintery to the touch.
The shed skin of an alien palm tree
writhed like beef jerky in the lawn;
the grass spilling over the guard rail,
sprouting like weeds in the jasmine.
Leaning his weight into the mower,
he ponders the symbolic value of these things.
He doesn’t know why.
Perhaps to pass the time.
Perhaps for something more.
He still half-heatedly believes
there’s more to himself
than he will ever understand.
***
The sun has soaked into the tied-off garbage bags.
He cradles the searing plastic to his chest
for as long as his skin can bear it.
He feels at this he has improved.
He freights the bags to the curbside.
The plastic wears thin under his fingers,
stretching down like putty.
He feels that it is too late.
The grass spills onto his feet.
He hears the front door open.
His younger brother calls him
and asks if he’d like some help.
He wipes the sweat out of his eyes,
shakes his head, and starts to pile up the grass.
He forgets to thank his brother for the offer.