smoke

Do you care?

Do you care at all about this chair I sit in,

This role I uphold, this face I make all over the place?

I rove and heave and storm around like

A safari vehicle beasting through brush.

Huffing and puffing and chugging

Irreverent hope, wheels spraying.

And smoke flares from my nostrils and the insolent exhaust pipe.

The villagers hate this about me.

The noise that I make.

I am the indignant bastard.

And then I find myself weak

And alone and isolated. I too,

Reflect, and ask forgiveness.

And where are you? Looking to my mind, no.

You are finding comfort in a very shallow pool.

The coolness of the water rises to your forehead,

Putting out any thoughts of deep that you had.

You say, "Let tomorrow come."

But you come back to me some

Hours later, to meet me at my chair.

And you observe and check and make sure

All the legs of my chair are fitted properly.

“I am a Carpenter”, you say.

And your tool of measure is a tiny

Spindle of wood, that you gently tap,

With consideration for any vibrations

I may feel, at the knees of my seat.

And you exclaim

All to be well and in fine order.

But you forget to check the head.

And to bed

For a sound nights rest,

And another day of pooling in the cool abyss.

I have fever over this.

My comrade, my friend.

I am the searcher and you are the sea.

Stephanie Lorentzen-Jordan