Your Socks

I am a mess,

waking up with only

one of your socks.

It’s on the floor, but the other,

the only garment worth looking for.

Your sock reminds me of

when I stole it from your drawer

while you sang in the shower,

rinsing off the night before.

I am a mess, because I cannot dress,

in this distress.

I make more mess of the mess already there,

looking for the missing of the pair,

trying to see past this omen of fear.

The socks with you are two,

but here I have only one, the other amiss.

What does this say about my status?

Where could it have gone?

I’ve searched everywhere.

It’s as if it disappeared.

I try harder not to die inside.

It makes me think about a time when you will hate me, when the sock

will be a reminder of a distant memory.

Or

about a time when we leave and I’m left with misery,

and merely a sock in solitary?

Or what about years from now,

when I throw the sock out, remembering that time…

But, oh! Here is the sock, underneath the bed.

Didn’t I look there?

How could I be so stupid?

You are my friend, forever until the end.

We are a pair after all,

too solid to break, too bendy to fall.

Tucson

If you’re sad or mad, go to Tucson.

If you’re fighting with yourself to accept your dream, go to Tucson.

If you’re hungry and impatient and you feel the tide

constantly changing,

your tires are spinning,

there’s no sense in winning,

but you know.

You know that you’re growing,

fertile you arrived and

pregnant you go.

Go to Tucson if you think

no one understands.

No one’s given you a chance,

but you were born to be made,

and Tucson is the shade,

the bassinet, the picnic and

the ants that destroy it.

Don’t disrespect

for she’s spacious and vast.

The Sonoran desert can kick

your ass. She’s

the place of ‘mad strife’,

The Seeker’s delight.

Go to Tucson if you’re willing to bleed

for your soul to be born,

The Phoenix rise from the ash.