I Don’t Need Poetry Anymore

I don’t need poetry anymore.

I folded it up and left it behind on the A train, wedged between seats. I left it hanging outside Central Park, wavering uncertainly in the wind as I rushed underground, in a big hurry to catch my ride.

It wasn’t appropriate anymore to dig through my heart for noise that will let me make music. For screams that can be leashed out to words and tied to meaning. Who will be around to explain that things change? The world becomes unrecognizable and it drifts.

We are grown now. Unless it is ‘eggs’ to the grocery list, there is no need to scribble anything urgently anywhere anymore. Much less in parks, or the inside of a church or waiting next to the bodega, sniffing the sharpness in the air. There is no poetry in trains anymore.

Time has lost its wisdom. It’s become distracted and hurried. And cluttered in a way that poetry can no longer sweep clean. There’s no order here, no rhymes and clicks that make sense.

Dreams

Something gets snagged, caught. Not clear what it is yet. A piece that you can only taste, that doesn’t have words yet, not even a story or people. All you remember is feeling afraid and unhappy. It made you wake up and pay attention to the ceiling. I negotiate wisps of my dreams back. It solidifies reluctantly as if it were giving away a secret. There are cracks in my dream, and bits have slipped through, escaped my lazy scrutiny.