We do so many horrid things on earth
the moon can only look at us full on
one day a month
Copyright 2011 Matthew J Wells but damned if I remember writing it
It’s midnight, and I know you’re not alone. Someone is touching you, stroking your cheek. You lean into his hand, and with a moan, You say three words I’ll never hear you speak. And what his lips will give then is a kiss My lips have only dreamed of giving to you; And what your eyes will say, he will not miss, For his eyes listen as they see right through you While mine are here, looking at what will be And choking on it, like a broken pill: A door that swings shut between you and me So it can open up to him at will, As you do now, when through that door you go To share a room that I will never know.
We all live one month’s rent beyond our means To order specials from the city’s menu. When subways shut down, we’ll walk home to Queens. NYC’s not an address--it’s a venue. We never stroll when we can dart or lunge; We move too fast to see our own reflection. Our sidewalks soak up rainfall like a sponge And then make oceans at each intersection. You’ll find the sound of traffic never stops; We locals all count taxis to relax. Live here a month and you will earn the chops To play our streets like Parker played the sax. Prouder than Paris, confident as Rome: Manhattan’s what a special breed calls home.
I had dinner with my future last night.
“You’ve lost weight,” I said.
“You used to be as wide as a freeway
With exits leading everywhere.
Now you’re so thin,
If you wore black, stood sideways,
And stuck your tongue out,
People would think you were a zipper.”
“If I’m thin,” my future said,
“It’s because you’re not feeding me enough.”
Then he hailed a cab,
Drove off to a midnight rendezvous
With my dreams, and left me
To share a cup of coffee with my past.
Copyright 2011 Matthew J Wells
Sometimes I wonder what I see in you. You never give except for your own gain. You rarely do the things you swear you’ll do. Your inconsistency drives me insane. You lay the law down like a traffic cop, And then wave favorites through against the lights-- Swear up and down that bias has to stop, Then make exceptions for connected whites. The rules mean what you say they mean, and we, Who follow them, get nothing but your scorn, While you proclaim impartiality And then bend over for the better born-- Upholding principles that can’t be bought, Then whoring them to power on the spot.