Poem.

I am losing metaphors again. I am losing my name. Where is it
and how does it go these days?

These days are cruel like April, which I’m glad is finally over,
and my hands wrinkle more with each day.
I notice more, too. Like when I’m scared my palms itch and heat rages through my body like blood in a vacuum.

I am trying to understand and at the same time, trying not to try.

There are envelopes too small on my office desk, there is too orange of
a wall in front of me. Too hot.
I am constantly hot and fired and broken. It is a wonderful
concoction that drives me to drink.

I am also open and watery, pool of relief when things are bad.
I make things bad, too, and I wobble
between dropping into the pool or becoming the concrete,
cold, relieving, distant.
Sometimes it would be so nice to be that way,
to be light blue and not so orange. Not so yellow and cowardly.

There are some mornings when everything falls into place
and my dog’s hair never smelled so good, and looking at the clock reminds me
that there is only so much time and it is endless.

Those are the times when the trees tell me their secrets: That all is as it should be.

I fight, though, to defend my measly desires,
my wants,
tiny as dew drops on my window,
proud as soldiers, though
and palpable as heartbeats.