The Past
See the man hanging lopsided on the back of the closet door?
The metal spikes rip at the flesh of his hands and calloused
feet
And the terrible twisted circlet of thorns sending streaks
of blood
Are causing that hurt on his acrylic face.
That look is not unfamiliar to you.
If there was a mirror in the closet you would see the lines
Of enduring hopelessness etched on it.
Draw away from the world of tear-streaked mascara
And pray
That tomorrow will be a better day.
Force aside the noises that cuff your ears,
From the wheezing lungs of another hungry man.
Forget your heavy-eyed mother’s rehearsed words
Seeping through the closet doors that work night.
Forgive the painful clench of your arm as your mother
Drags you to your bed,
Your duct-tape patched couch.
Arrive at a wonderful land
As you lay in the twilight.
Soar on the backs of eagles in the spring air.
Step off a sun-bleached rowboat onto an unmapped land.
Glide lazily down a stream away from the stumbling men in
the city.
Go now, go now before the light of the picture dies
Beneath the light of your bleary eyes.
Pursue a deep, disconnected sleep,
And pray
That tomorrow will be that better day
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