THE INNER VOICE
An Inspirational Magazine

Hoping Aspirin Won't Eat Me Alive

by tim bellows

I keep my light in a box,
wear a coat of strangers' eyes. I go
scratching at city doors,
begging release from greedy pills,
metals, and walls painted the silver
of photographers’ moons. And by the way,

who has taught me all this speaking?
I'm taking my sandwich and walking out.
I've played the film parts on location
downtown. (I never liked the talkies.) I
stomp past my last friend
the grip, his microphone swaying overhead.

I hold my steel box, the lid and latch
rattle their small noises. Who
has taught me to love them?
And will you look at the poses
of these angel hands and the long feet
skating me store to store on
black water pavement? You angels!,
I have become a city of others.
My cells full of factory dust. My skin
settled by a brotherhood of germs. My bones,
the stuff of ancient trees! My mind
filled with tavern gossips. And another thing,

are you the others, the ones
my little box has bitten? Tell me.
I reject your deathly newspapers
sprawled over café tables. I’m hurrying north.
By a river a Sufi wears a body
in my honor. I'm
hustling off to his teaching,
still holding my own nervous hands.
Give me time to learn - I'll read
the river's wishes, send my light
slicing over the surface,
my voice into blue sky.
I'll change!, speak only when asked,
keep an ear to moving water.

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