Friday, November 19, 2004

Dry Spell (another fabulous poem by Marc Rahe)

There aren’t many hours of lightness now.
The givers leave us with less.

When we look at each other,
we have to hide our wants.
My want cries and cries.
I hit it while I pretend no one can hear.

I catch someone looking eager
for me to damage my want
so I won’t have it.

But I feel rude.

Let me show you some things
so you won’t look at me.
This is the Hi-Liter I highlight with.
This is the telephone that my friend used
to scare me. She loves me
so much I don’t think
she’ll ever show me what she wants.
Oh how I speculate.

As though that’s the same.
When I speculate, the stars
that dangle from the ceiling like a reward
become reward and I have hope
one day all will come.

Sometimes the givers want
to see us. We let them
with their cold hands.
We don’t know how to get.

I like it here. I’m quiet.
I promise you I’m good.

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