Poets' Practice Pad

You and I

I perch in front of the keyboard,
to the tune of a whiny husband,
and try to maintain the habit of
my ostensible soap opera,
the object of my obsession,
if not the tiresome kind,
while I extract images and shop
in my twenty-four market
for buried subtexts,
inspiring syllables,
and verbal daredevilry.

Predictably, at the first flash
of eye contact with you,
my words, amplified and panicked,
rush to the checkout counter
self-conscious of their own rattling,
their lungs collapsing without hope,
when fantasy worlds end up
stranded
and miracles don't collide.

Though I fear your yawning's trauma,
I imagine you.

With your delicate jaw-line bent,
you pout your lips;
you complain of blurred vision
from the scavenger hunt on screen;
and you shrug your shoulders
at the drama of my obscurity.

Then your eyes catch the ice pinnacles
outside your window,
and you take a sip from your hot tea,
which coats your displeasure
like a warm blanket,
giving solace
for mocking me.




Sig by karjia96

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