Ruts

Two poems today. Neither titled. Neither good. I'm in somewhat of a rut lately and need something new and exciting to shake me out of it.

I don't want to hear that I'm capable,
funny, smart. A catch. Someone anyone
would be lucky to share their life with.
I'd rather sit next to you, here on the couch,
drink this bottle of wine, and watch a movie
without a happy ending.

* * *
Hidden columns exist.
Or so my database tells me
right before there's a critical error
and my computer shuts down before
saving any of half a day's work.
Rebooting, I wonder if my database
has a weird, existentially twisted
sense of humor. Of course hidden
columns exist. If they didn't
how could they be hidden?
Beginning to rebuild my work
I realize what a long night it's going to be.
Full of musings on hidden columns and
that same old tree in the forest
that no one ever seems to hear.

* * *

Tomorrow's poem: Take a concrete object and use it as a launch pad for memory

Because You Left Me A Handful of Daffodils

Max Garland

I suddenly thought of Brenda Hatfield, queen

of the 5th grade, Concord Elementary.

A very thin, shy girl, almost

as tall as Audrey Hepburn,but blond.

She wore a dress based upon the principle of the daffodil: puffed sleeves,

inflated bodice, profusion

of frills along the shoulder blades

and hemline.

A dress based upon the principle of girl

as flower; everything unfolding, spilling

outward and downward: ribbon, stole, corsage, sash.

It was the only thing I was ever

Elected.

A very short king.

I wore a bow tie, and felt

Like a third-grader.

Even the scent of daffodils you left

reminds me. It was a spring night.

And escorting her down the runway was a losing battle, trying to march

down among the full, thick folds

of crinoline, into the barrage of her father's flashbulbs, wading

the backwash of her mother's perfume: scared, smiling, tiny, down at the end

of that long, thin, Audrey Hepburn arm,

where I was king.