My sister’s coming today! She’s dragging me to the bead store and parade in town tomorrow! Exclamation marks!
Here’s more (yes; there was more) of the “Hot Bagels” poem I found the other night.
(More) Hot Bagels
On Monday, walking into the Stockton Campus Center,
where the shiny new foosball tables are still slumbering,
I think about sleep: how dreams have become
like an endless Facebook newsfeed, it would seem,
digesting all the days from all of the people on there:
here a seed, there a seed, everywhere a seed-seed.
One sets up Facebook on the laptop screen against
a view out the window at the street, where there are a few trees,
and, like a quiz, is asked, “Which one is the real world?”
and, like an eye exam, is prompted, “Which one is clearer?”
––the Facebook screen or the facing window scene?
One eye on Facebook, the very dull cocktail party
that never ends, as some describe; one eye wandering to
a flock of birds shaken from one tree,
where they have stooped to take a pit stop,
snacking on pits as they make their way off
to warmer climes; to Florida.
Why in such a hurry though, birds?
It’s December 4th and 64 degrees still.
I’m not even wearing an overcoat or any
winter woolens yet. It’s practically a return to spring.
The birds could be a flock of Phoenixes,
bursting into December flame,
warmed by this menopausal earth,
this hot flash winter––
Somehow, the birds are not fooled by this late autumnal ruse.
Somehow they know that this is not real,
that a mild December is just a Trojan horse:
that tomorrow will come hoarfrost to freeze
their little hollow bird-bones, and so––
a quick snack before getting back on the road.
There is much argument of chirping as they are launched
back into flight formation and scatter like
little meteoric pieces of linty fuzz back into space.
A part of my heart takes with them.
My bones may become hollow one day,
my head covered with more linty fuzz than hair, but still
my heart will always be too heavy to fly away with them:
goodbye, birds; goodbye, little birds.
My heart, like an anchor, one of stability;
my friend Karen worries, One’s heart either an anchor,
or a dead albatross locked in the rib cage.
Karen is getting an anchor tattooed on her arm,
an old school sailor’s anchor,
to keep her weighted to the ground,
to keep her steady-on when she wants to run away.
Steady on, albatross. Here is home,
she will say to the anchor tattoo.
Correction: Karen has since decided
against the tattoo.