crazy dream with 20 kids
happily disobeying, chattering Russian.
I am screaming to no effect,
yelling like my mother times 10.
obnoxious sound that pulses on,
my body moves and fights to find that stupid little switch.
the day begins
and i pray for grace and wonder why on earth
we should ever rejoice for this day that God has made;
he must increase and right now i really wouldn't mind if
i decreased to the size of a bug so i could crawl somewhere and hide.
another day of crazy tasks and things that everyone must do
to meet their deadline while the clock keeps ticking tocking
taunting that we may not finish.
i want to find that stupid book they call the simple church
and put it on someone's desk and ask them if it's a farce.
these projects are only paper; soon to be trash
and yet someone somewhere thinks it must be perfect
or that we simply cannot function without it.
i bite my tongue and swallow the words.
daring them to try it and see if they die -that
might be a satisfying thing to say but it
would not be prudent, as dear mom would say.
the printer jams; hit that wall and turn around;
i smell the cheese of freedom and fight to
make a hole, only to turn around and find the trick;
grab the key; run the next lap and clean my desk;
done, finished or not
head for home and see the bucket-
that white thing used as a seat
and sometimes a shade by the
homeless dude who's graced the
intersection of 401 and 10/10 for as long
as i've had this job and who called
the church when he went to the hospital
'cause the college boys here stopped to talk
him about jesus one day and he said they were
the only ones who really cared about him;
his bucket had fresh flowers and top and a home-made sign:
DAVID
3-xx-1962
2-22-2009
was this the guy?
or did someone else die here and use this guy's bucket
as a makeshift memorial?
i wrack my brain for an answer to the last time i saw him,
and can't recall.
a vapor
a piece of paper with a marker for his memorial
head home to the one who puts up with my random
thoughts even when he's tired and tackle chore and head to church
and am reminded to "just do it" and head home to go to bed
and hear the buzz and start a day
and this time start with praise...just do it.
happily disobeying, chattering Russian.
I am screaming to no effect,
yelling like my mother times 10.
obnoxious sound that pulses on,
my body moves and fights to find that stupid little switch.
the day begins
and i pray for grace and wonder why on earth
we should ever rejoice for this day that God has made;
he must increase and right now i really wouldn't mind if
i decreased to the size of a bug so i could crawl somewhere and hide.
another day of crazy tasks and things that everyone must do
to meet their deadline while the clock keeps ticking tocking
taunting that we may not finish.
i want to find that stupid book they call the simple church
and put it on someone's desk and ask them if it's a farce.
these projects are only paper; soon to be trash
and yet someone somewhere thinks it must be perfect
or that we simply cannot function without it.
i bite my tongue and swallow the words.
daring them to try it and see if they die -that
might be a satisfying thing to say but it
would not be prudent, as dear mom would say.
the printer jams; hit that wall and turn around;
i smell the cheese of freedom and fight to
make a hole, only to turn around and find the trick;
grab the key; run the next lap and clean my desk;
done, finished or not
head for home and see the bucket-
that white thing used as a seat
and sometimes a shade by the
homeless dude who's graced the
intersection of 401 and 10/10 for as long
as i've had this job and who called
the church when he went to the hospital
'cause the college boys here stopped to talk
him about jesus one day and he said they were
the only ones who really cared about him;
his bucket had fresh flowers and top and a home-made sign:
DAVID
3-xx-1962
2-22-2009
was this the guy?
or did someone else die here and use this guy's bucket
as a makeshift memorial?
i wrack my brain for an answer to the last time i saw him,
and can't recall.
a vapor
a piece of paper with a marker for his memorial
head home to the one who puts up with my random
thoughts even when he's tired and tackle chore and head to church
and am reminded to "just do it" and head home to go to bed
and hear the buzz and start a day
and this time start with praise...just do it.
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