Poem
This is a rough draft. It's like, 60-grit sandpaper rough. Nonetheless, I'm posting it here. Enjoy. Comments and critique welcome.
Leaving Poway
How on earth did we foxtrot clumsily together for so long,
unwilling to admit that neither of us was right for the other?
What brought us together in the first place? It wasn’t destiny.
You and I move in opposing orbits. Your sun sears;
your eucalyptus look like toy trees to this Northern boy
Your raised pickups and clusters of churches have chafed my shoulders
These fresh, pale faces spur yearnings for the impossible;
their cornsilk hair and adolescent laughter set the hook in me
but Mom’s Lexus widens a chasm already too massive to jump.
The stickers glitter on the gas-guzzlers; Dodo feathers thick and musty:
Viva Bush. Off-roaders for Bush. Jesus is Lord. Let’s Roll. But the very worst
say “In Memoriam: ______ ________, 1984 - 2005.” I’ve suffocated.
The Marine jets thunder northward. The news choppers buzz
the roof; the Chinooks and Apaches rattle the windows, bringing
the war to us. The bulldozers are sweet music by comparison.
This dance was awkward and untrained; I knew only the basic
steps, while you were attempting a sousa march with me in tow.
So obvious after mere months, yet we staggered through the routine.
It was a dirty trick that you pulled, for even as you cracked my toes
and even as I crushed your instep with my heel, jerking numbly,
the grasshoppers buzzed lazily in the tall grass, and the honeysuckle scented at night.
Heat lightning flickered on the horizon, fitful flashes from towers of
anvil-crested thunderheads. The breeze, when it came, smelled sweetly
of desert flowers, coconut oil, barbeques, and rang with laughter.
Saturday mornings at the farmer’s market; against my will, I felt
affection for the old park, the steam train, the summer concert posters
I gleefully picked my peaches, tomatoes, lettuce, tuberoses, fresh eggs.
And then there was that day, two weeks ago, maybe.
The pre-teens sitting on their lawn, pleading for attention.
Their sign said “honk!” It was a simple joy to make them so happy.
The songs are coming to an end now, yours and mine. We have tried
to make this dance a thing of beauty, and though there were pure moments
mixed in, this was never meant to be. We both know it.
There will be others for you; families of five feckless children
splashing in the pool, riding bikes in the street, waving signs,
selling lemonade. They will love your churches and your stickers.
I can’t say I really gave you a fair shot. Maybe we started off
on the wrong foot. It’s hard to dance when you’re off-balance.
We vibrate at incompatible frequencies. It’s nothing personal.
Leaving Poway
How on earth did we foxtrot clumsily together for so long,
unwilling to admit that neither of us was right for the other?
What brought us together in the first place? It wasn’t destiny.
You and I move in opposing orbits. Your sun sears;
your eucalyptus look like toy trees to this Northern boy
Your raised pickups and clusters of churches have chafed my shoulders
These fresh, pale faces spur yearnings for the impossible;
their cornsilk hair and adolescent laughter set the hook in me
but Mom’s Lexus widens a chasm already too massive to jump.
The stickers glitter on the gas-guzzlers; Dodo feathers thick and musty:
Viva Bush. Off-roaders for Bush. Jesus is Lord. Let’s Roll. But the very worst
say “In Memoriam: ______ ________, 1984 - 2005.” I’ve suffocated.
The Marine jets thunder northward. The news choppers buzz
the roof; the Chinooks and Apaches rattle the windows, bringing
the war to us. The bulldozers are sweet music by comparison.
This dance was awkward and untrained; I knew only the basic
steps, while you were attempting a sousa march with me in tow.
So obvious after mere months, yet we staggered through the routine.
It was a dirty trick that you pulled, for even as you cracked my toes
and even as I crushed your instep with my heel, jerking numbly,
the grasshoppers buzzed lazily in the tall grass, and the honeysuckle scented at night.
Heat lightning flickered on the horizon, fitful flashes from towers of
anvil-crested thunderheads. The breeze, when it came, smelled sweetly
of desert flowers, coconut oil, barbeques, and rang with laughter.
Saturday mornings at the farmer’s market; against my will, I felt
affection for the old park, the steam train, the summer concert posters
I gleefully picked my peaches, tomatoes, lettuce, tuberoses, fresh eggs.
And then there was that day, two weeks ago, maybe.
The pre-teens sitting on their lawn, pleading for attention.
Their sign said “honk!” It was a simple joy to make them so happy.
The songs are coming to an end now, yours and mine. We have tried
to make this dance a thing of beauty, and though there were pure moments
mixed in, this was never meant to be. We both know it.
There will be others for you; families of five feckless children
splashing in the pool, riding bikes in the street, waving signs,
selling lemonade. They will love your churches and your stickers.
I can’t say I really gave you a fair shot. Maybe we started off
on the wrong foot. It’s hard to dance when you’re off-balance.
We vibrate at incompatible frequencies. It’s nothing personal.