Bobber in the Sky

One of things I’m really good at is giving persons

who aren’t so good at relationships the space they need

to learn what it means to cry for help.

Sure, there was a time I used to see things

that, like signs,

would speak to me about my particular hope,

help identify it, and if I was lucky, fulfill it.

But you know, that sea always promises

so much more than what it actually gives.

Dreams like stars can and do collapse.

Life moves around a lot, but it doesn’t budge.

Sorry to sound like the neighborhood paranoid

but we’re all going to die, and theirs will

and theirs

and so on and so forth,

like cotton candy

which is going to be here tomorrow,

and the next day,

no matter whose spinning it.

I know, I don’t get out much,

and I’m not talking just leaving the house,

The fact is I’m terrified of speaking my mind.

It’s much easier to do what people want me to do,

to be petted and fed for being agreeable.

Actually, that’s not true. It’s easy both ways.

Forgive me for being so paradoxical but

this joy for calling my own bluff is why

I’m such a dependable disappointment at parties,

and why you’ll always catch me in the backroom,

where all the shit-filled diaper-wearing swashbuckling kids

are playing let me into the club or I’m going to tell,

my back on the floor, 

my head floating, like a Hot Hole Pond bobber,

on top of the stars.