Steven Wright
my frustration, as if that man on the lawn
wasn't really a man, but lawn with company.
Trust me, one loses the other then tries to find
the red X on the map. I should go home,
think questions. Perhaps the man was a tree,
just as glass need not resemble sand. Then
again, maybe he'll die soon. So what, I'm
scared of trees, what they have grown to mean.
I'm even scared of streets, looking both ways,
how I'm still not safe when I know where to
look. But mostly, I'm afraid of falling. Splatter
of moss rerouted. It'll end then begin when
a knock says, "Wake up. The chair of clothes
has fallen. Don't worry. It will all be familiar
again." Are you Ok? people will say, expecting
some incomplete and excusably stricken answer.
They will expect to know how you got there.
They will expect to see all your work. You could
be crossing the street and Bam! someone's going
to call tonight, someone will leave a message.
But the path is not yet altogether vanished,
since the marks on the street, though less orange
than spring say, "Go there. Make a right, then
a right, then right." Unless Main Street leads you
to some unexpected and laminated gate. Then
you could say, "I always wanted to live through
something like that." Over there, pipes run west
instead of east. Over there, I lost it. Over there,
over there. Ask or do not ask. Cave without
mountain, just up. If asked, "Who are you?"
try out obesity or rowing in place. Turn on
the cable dish. Look out for clouds, even parts
of clouds. Remember where they go. What is
familiar anyway? An arm or leg, maybe.
In Italy, the naked woman on the billboard will
tell you, "This is all the fur I'll wear." Maybe
it's just confusing, or else, confused from the start.
Wrong, right, done or overdone, over, maybe
now. It could be that your headlights illuminate
an animal or a man in bear suit, dead in woods
on dirt road 101. One loses the other then tries
to find the red X on the map.
