Booth or a Table
There’s a question that I meet
When I go in to eat
And there’s a hostess greeting me,
Wondering where she’s seating me,
“Would you like a booth or a table?”
My answer, of course is both please
Or my dinner will be unstable
Balancing on my knees.
If I just had the table, I’d grow weary
Squatting by my food contrary
To the imagined experience I had
Inside my head when I was glad
To dine at a table.
Text Treatment
55% of conversation is body movement.
A body groove sent from me to you
to view.
38% of conversation is vocal inflections
for audible inspections to cage in
the speech I engage in.
Don’t fear the silent treatment.
Fear what I’m misconveying
In 93% of what I’m saying
The things you’ll miss
If I text you this.
Strange place
Your confused face
Reminds me this place
Is entirely new for you.
I suppose that I’m used to it,
But you throwing a fit
With your echoing cries
Makes me realize
That it’s entirely new for you
Which makes it new for me too.
Authenticity
I strive to have people chase me,
I place a bounty on my head so high
How could people not try
To off me.
That’s how I avoid
being labeled paranoid.
Day and Night
Every nighttime takes its breath
As days go down to deal with death.
But every day, the sun will rise
In this eternal compromise.
Long Friendships
If I know someone for a long period
Our relationship grants us a myriad
Of memories that no one sees.
These memories allow our minds to fuss
Over jokes that have long passed,
Though they shouldn’t last,
They’re still funny to us.
Over time, we’ve become closer friends,
Our beginnings and ends have stretched out.
The humanity found in a brother
Is known to each other.
It’s tempting to say your life is worth more
Than those dying for
The choice of their mother.
When I am not.
I am not ignored
until I am not,
then I am
Ignored but remembered.
Same Space
Same chair, same space,
Contemplating grace
In the same chair. Same space.
Same empty echo-ey place.
Inside, it’s the same race
To discover the same space.
The Patience of Drinking Water
Between the numbers 32 and 33,
There exists a perfect drink for me.
Mechanized ice shifts and cracks away,
Refreezing formations that won’t stay
At least not while I tap my glass
Waiting for its stick to pass
As I drink each droplet that goes
Down the cup before my nose
Is attacked by the ice age contained
In the glass I’ve drained.
Patience will quench my thirst
When a new burst
Of ice trickling calls
And a new formation falls,
But for now I’ll wait with my glass in a ring of ice sweat,
Making a circle in concrete wet.
Procrastination
These words were once from yesterday
Imagining tomorrow’s way
Of saying things I hoped to say,
But put them off until today.
BonjourPoetry 