POETRY MAGICK: Quitting Time

// Photography: Jeff Wolfe // 

What have we got?
Where are we now?
What do we know?
Don’t know much.

Flailing arms up and down the sidewalks making time into work.
Bewilder ourselves with heavy sacks of yesterday on our backs.
Every pocket over-stuffed with affectations and keepsakes
from moons and moons ago.

Keep the inner laughter from spilling out –
if we could only see ourselves with our contorted faces reflecting brains that make no sense of things.
How things truly are eludes greasy fingers.
The spirits of every mistake ever made in this building visit me, whispering
about how they felt and the exact thing they should have done instead.
I wonder why the happy spirits don’t have much to say.
Maybe because they hang around big stereo speakers playing out wild
new interpretations of the silly and wondrous condition of dancing molecules.

Thank you, I do believe I’ll have another. And another. And another.

A wicked batch of thoughts get tangled up lousing up the better part of the afternoon. Damn, if that doesn’t always seem to happen when precautions aren’t taken against the thousand-fold flood of images and words this world furiously
pops, spits and sends.

Best to stand back, hold ground for the little territory that’s left inside.
With allowance, the mires of the web drag us down into solitary states of smarmy.
If there are not several conversations to be had at once, there’s none to be had at all.

A small plane overhead indicates one good idea being acted upon.
Down here in the pit of wrestling desires, insignificant differences announce themselves as forcefully as if they were.
Games of chicken occupy waking hours. Little of God’s work done.
Who will give way?

In a lonely office on the 8th floor, a woman is reminded of the creaky heavy metal sound of Rick Weiler’s old Dodge as he opened the passenger side door for her.
Left now to wonder how her life would have turned out if she decided to go on that third date after all.

Then there’s that moment as the Mid-Western clocks reach five and momentarily angry anxieties shove off to the sideline.
It’s quitting time. And we scatter to what makes us feel a little younger.
Sunbeams of dreams shine down, making the most of the precious little
moment that we can own. Finally, the excuse to roll all the windows down. Remembering the unwritten memo with a laugh and the white lies to come.

The best song the radio can muster finds itself on the dial. I’ll be damned if I’m not tapping away on the worn out steering wheel – unconsciously in rhythm and time.
In this instant, every car carries an angel in flight. It’s exactly 5:21. One. One. One.

Four wheels glide as the sun beats down on the dash overlooking eternity.
The longest night of the year is ahead.

I remember.
The sun never shuts off. The soul never shuts off. All is forgiven.
For we were just children fumbling in the dark,
thinking the sun dies every night.

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