This is why we need poets:
not just to write sense
from the chaos of earth
but to understand ourselves
and what we can do about it
as so few of us truly do.

There's a well-worn scratch
just below the old brass handle
on the door of forty-six Jopling Avenue

my keys knew it as well as my feet
knew the ancient wicker welcome mat
left by sweet tenants decades before me

take the lucky seven bus to Finch
and there it's hidden behind mid-rises
obscured by traffic and ignored by most

the fading brick harmony
matches the exhausted panel walls
when the door creaks open for you

it was as if it wanted you to be there
the way the little room welcomed you
all the warmth a tired frame could offer

large enough to fit a bed
small enough to hit your head
and perfect for a lonely poet like me

but now my home is packed in boxes
and I'll never again be warmly welcomed
by the door of forty-six Jopling Avenue.

In flirtatious quiet
we dodge eye contact
and escape studious looks
in hope that one might fall in love
with the other without even a single word.

“I’ve been meaning to talk to you,
About this
I can already tell you aren’t listening.


“Some days my depression is small, like a firefly in the mouth of a lion.
Other days, it’s the lion.”

You don’t acknowledge me.

“Firefly days aren’t so bad.
Tolerable.
Lion days, however, I call dark days.
It’s not like i fear the dark, and maybe that’s my problem, but I’ve gotten so used to it, it’s like a friend almost.
A toxic friend, slowly consuming me to the point where some days i am held captive in my own bed.
Some days i cannot eat.”

“I thought your problem was laziness.” You say going back to ignoring me.

“If that was the problem I wouldn’t have marks on my wrist that you know don’t come from a cat.
We don’t even have a cat and you know there is something wrong and you refuse to acknowledge it and for what?

Your dignity?

The same dignity that prohibits me from loving who I want because the rest of the world may not agree with it?

The very same dignity that killed your own daughter because you were too proud to get her the help she needed?

Oh, right.

That was my fault.

The same way it is my fault you’re stuck with two kids you didn’t want.

The same way it’s not your fault i tried to take my own life.

Because I was selfish.

Selfish for trying to rid you of burdens that you don't even carry.

I'm sorry I'm not enough for you.

The entirety of my mind
     Flexed in a single

Movement

             In that moment

                                         Days it lasts

Nothing is lifted

The words
                    Too heavy
                                       Anyway

                                        I
                                    Tried

The tiles stay the same
A grid to measure how little was done
The traffic of routine
Allows at least a little
Fading in the grout
Still there are tiles
Untouched in the small spaces of habit
How can there be
So much unexplored
In a schedule unchanged
For thirty years

Faith
Haveth
Wings
That
Reaches
All of heaven
Where
Your
Holy spirit
So
Full of grace