The Trees

I am a still life. Lit­tle lights dance in the cor­ner of my imag­i­na­tion,
teas­ing me like candy, keep­ing me breath­ing.
I stare at unmov­ing water look­ing for action.
The longer I stare the less I see.
This town is drown­ing;
This is your cap­tain: we are going down.

I am going to close my eyes and wake up
I am going to close my eyes and wake up.

Even­tu­ally all the placid nice things
I have to say
about being here
wear thin, like skin
pulled tight over a weary
plastic-jawed fifty year old in
furry lined boots scur­ry­ing to yoga.

I am going to close my eyes and wake up
I am going to close my eyes and wake up.

I am going to burn down my nice still life
and enjoy the sight of the tiny lit­tle fire
in the cor­ner of my rear view.
My arm will be draped across a bench seat
(All the new cars suck)
You com­ing? I still can‘t do this alone.