The Poetry Marathon

You were the child I never had

We connected as you made me sick

You were small, but I felt you

You were athletic

I knew when you were gone

By the internal quiet I felt

The ultrasound confirmed

What I already knew

I never gave birth to you

I never had to feed or clothe you

I imagine how you would look

How you would act

What trouble we would have.

You would nineteen now

You would be the college student

Not me

You would be growing into adulthood

You would be falling in and out of love

You would be finding your way in the world

And I would be learning to let you go.

We never got that chance

For nine weeks you were real

For 19 years you are imaginary

I think about you often

I think about what should have been, could have been

I wonder where I went wrong

I was unable to be a parent

You were unable to be my child

Maybe you watch over me

Maybe we will meet one day

Maybe our souls are still entwined

So Death walks into a bar

He asks for a Lime Gimlet

The bartender gives him a dirty look

Death won that round

Death walks into a restaurant

He asks for an ice cream cone to go

The waiter gives him a dirty look

Death won that round too

Death walks into a hospital

He asks where ER is

The nurse gives good directions

Death found who he was looking for

Death walks into his office

He has a patient, a waiter, and a bartender

His secretary says ” Good Night?”

Death says ” I didn’t get my ice cream cone and my Gimlet.

A good night is relative”

I glide  in mercilessly unknown

Caught in a scream of circumstance

Obliterating starlight

Beguiling my torment

Stealing from myself

Glad to be free

Lifeless, cold

Dying

Eye

Today I will blanket the world

With words

I will send my best

And my worst

I am feeling darkness

Flutter in the noon day sun

I am feeling depression dance

Into the gentle, hot breeze

I will blanket the world

With words

Crawling into dark spaces

Lonely places

I will use my words as salve

Convincing myself

All will be fine

Someday, soon

I will blanket the world

With hope and warmth

Bundled up in words

of hope

You always got gypped

So many birthdays in a row

Then Christmas

Then New Year’s

By Jan 7 we were holidayed out

Our money was gone

That cake was too much

After a month of sweets

Now I would give anything

To bake you a cake

Watch you open a mountain of presents

I know celebrations made you

uncomfortable

But your being alive deserved celebration

Now I mark that day

As another day without my Dad

A day after Christmas

And New Year’s and all those birthdays

I celebrate it solemnly

I write you a poem or a Facebook post

And I think about you

I wonder about you

You gave me far more

Than I ever gave you

You deserved so much

You never got

This too shall pass

We will march into the future

Eyes wide open

To mistakes we made

The debts we paid

This too shall pass

We make our path

We forge ahead

We stand fast and strong

We incurred our wrath

We buttered our bread

We cowered in corners

We avenged the wrong

This too shall pass

We will get to the other side

Better prepared, more in tune

Less of who we once were

For we have slain ourselves

We have played the victor and the victim

We have won a coward’s battle

And lost a warrior’s creed

I got nothing

The prompts aren’t doing it

The pictures aren’t inspiring me

It isn’t them

Its me

I don’t want to play

I want to nap

Go run through a sea of tulips

I want sing songs at the top of my lungs

I don’t want to poem anymore

So many hours

So little sleep

The cat is glaring at me

I am uninspired

Unmotivated

I got nothing

Just a bunch of words

On a piece of paper

Filling up nonsense

To avoid getting serious

Should this poem be flippant?

Carefree?

Lazy?

Maybe funny?

Or should it be dark?

Depressive?

Full of death and anger?

Should this poem rhyme?

Should it sing?

Should the metaphors jump from the page

and run around the room?

Should this poem pull me into the grave?

Pull my grief outwards?

Until tears flow and my heart aches?

Must this poem be anything at all?

Can it just be itself?

Tired and muddy

Wordless and tone-deaf.

Why does a poem

Need to be anything at all?

There is a cat on my lap

He won’t budge

So my fingers must navigate keyboard keys

Sideways

He is impervious to poetry

He knows his presence

His comfort

Are most important of all

He has a bad boop on his head

And stickers that must be pulled

He puts his head down on the arm

Trying to sleep while I clack away

A sound he cannot control

He is impervious to poetry

But not the inconvenience

It creates

His self-centered existence

The comfort of a warm lap

Disturbed

By floating words from sideways fingers

On a laptop invading his space

You gave me gravestones

Popcorn

Long walks talking about everything

You gave me hole punches

Staplers and never ending post-it notes

You mistook me for the moon

I thought you were the sun

Planets orbited around us

You gave me gravestones

Headwinds

Glorious sunsets

Filled with hope

We intertwined

Hearts beating

Melting into each other

You gave me gravestones

I reciprocated in kind

I gave you death