Somethings up stairs – sounds – suitcases moving – trips being planned a worry maybe – and on a wall a painting unpainting itself stroke by stroke – until it is bare canvas, like something else wanting to be something more or an hallucination.
And then you yourself are flying and worrying about being in a hurry. Which is the perfect time for a clock to wake someone across the country in a different house – up their stairs, to their thoughts about you coming (long before any planned departure).
I want to cry – so make me with something real about you – allow me to be with you standing with someone else by the ocean of your reckoning; singing their blessed song – the one that removes worry. The one with your complicated meter of meaning.
It is the far away and close song, the one momma or some man you heard in a park sing. Don’t want to sing for me? OK – but what about others whom you love, and their parting smiles and the vanishing of photos from upper bedroom drawers, will you sing for them?
Shaking and vibrating – shivering… moving from place to place – in your room, out on the deck, or in the garage looking for something misplaced, all the time listening for a certain audible recording of a wish whisper – a cooing melody – a soft reply…
Head tilted, wondering when or if that sound will come – when its breath of fresh air will rustle thought leaves in your yard and awaken the scarecrow you remember building as a child way back when, hoping an angel would arrive and tell you about tomorrow.
But you and the idea you have of yourself can’t just get up and walk, or run back home – you are grown now, a man or a woman…Still, there was a store on a corner near where you grew up that sold the best ice-cream in the world –
And next door lived a lady who sold autumn apples – and next door to her was a man who hung himself when his wife and children were out on an errand. Remember it all. I mean the good and the bad of it, and never let a wish rob you of a genuine revelation.