Watching a football game that I don’t really care about. Toggling the news channel. The world’s a mess, but keep hope alive. I can hear the water turned on and off in the apartment next door. A dog barks across the way. The city is waiting for the storm to drop. My stomach gurgles. I feel content.
Write a brave poem, my mind says to my shrinking self, who just wants to take a nap. Okay, okay, what is brave and what is not? Let’s discuss.
On the shuttle from Sea-Tac to Bellingham zipping up the I5 north, on the way to see my cousins, I keep saying (in my head of course) I love you, I love you, not sure who, or what, I’m speaking to—could be the Space Needle coming up on the right, powder blue sky, the just turning aspens lining the freeway.
The face of the gray horse, looking over the backs of the two bays, sits squarely in the frame of the photo, a line of trees cuts across the back of his neck like a far off horizon. The eyes have the effect of looking straight into the camera, though they sit on either side of the head, woeful eyes, cautious eyes, curious and world-weary.
I bought a “bucket” bag yesterday at the mall, because the trip to Paris in the fall got cancelled and I won’t be spending that $3000-plus savings to share a room with a friend in the 4th arrondissement, sleeping on the roll-out bed, doing all the touristy things, visiting Monet’s garden, of course. So, why not indulge?
I’m going to start writing my truth, though I hardly know it, can barely look it in the eye, though I’m terrified of what it will reveal.
Hari B Poet 