Fill is a middle-aged wordsmith who wasted his passion for words writing romance poetry to a too-busy, analytical wife and making up non-scensical, Sesame Street-type rhymes to amuse his now-grown children.
When divorce and an empty nest let him consider other options, he makes up a cheap Lucy Van Pelt-like sign, “The Improv Poet is IN!”, stands on street corners, and does poetic, usually iambic commentary on people passing by.
Look at your finger./
Again. That’s NOT the center/
of the Universe.
Your past experience
Has always been
There is no rush.
There is little anticipation.
It is always just convenient.
It doesn’t mean anything.
You claim it is different
With us,
But when there is only silence
It sounds like
What you’ve told me about.
It feels the same
To me.
So I wonder
If the distance
And the blasé’
And the non-connection
Is really what you want,
Just like you always have.
And I wonder
If I should ask,
Or would that be pushy.
And I wonder
If I should just wait,
In silence,
And how long
it will be
Until I finally
Figure it out.
Until I finally
believe
and trust
with my heart,
my heart.
The space vacated/
when I clean my life of junk/
leaves room for wonder.
Can I handle the touch?
I think so,
for when you’ve craved something so much
you relish every bite,
every morsel and taste.
You never let lips take flight,
nor waste
the tender newness
and gentle caress
of what you’ve waited so long for,
sans haste.
So much was written/
already about silence,/
there’s not much to say.
Or
there’s not more to say.
Moonlite slatted through/
blinded windows and barren /
trees makes me lonely.
In the past we’d have /
lain with the pain to heal. Now,/
that’s no solution.
I was so glad to/
be able to say something,/
I didn’t let you.