With Age

Yellow dreams,
shapes of curtains
holding small arguments.
Cradle large, sad eyes.
Cradle large, sad mouth.
Whisper public knowledge,
and scream every secret,
a tickle in the throat,
a daring charge,
static in the heart.
If this is the death knell,
if this is the bed my
fullness will know,
then I am ready.
Cradle complex shoulders,
with the weight of broken things,
lies yellow around the edges with age.

Watch and Wait

I have cereal, but no milk--
a heart, but no brain.
I have empty boxes
and a lonely mattress
on the floor.

When the watchmaker asked me
how long I wanted to wait,
I responded, out of breath,
"forever,
I would wait forever,"

but these calloused hands
make no bread.
These fingers press buttons
and document "self-
care, self-
flagellation."

I have cereal, but no milk--
nothing left over
for my cat to quietly drink,
to quietly meditate over.

He is content watching a bird
through a closed window,
never knowing how to hunt,
only how to watch and wait

and wait.