Hello there. I was just working on this one, and it feels pretty good. Hope you like it. The first line is the title on this one, a little trick some poets use when wanting to blur the beginning. :)
You come to me in pieces.
I see you inside the delivery man’s
quick lip licks, his thin-legged,
slanted stride, and the nearly accurate,
static, jerky moment
right when his bony hips
suddenly tilt, giving in to the stroke
of first sweep.
Nearby, good teeth like yours
tear through lettuce.
Fresh from detox, the church drunk
shudders in circles,
stopping only to hover
kitchen-counter-style,
soon diving in for a full plate,
arriving on time, on stage,
like you. I see you inside
the picnic table bad man;
he watches the scattered ladies,
switches open his blade, and carves
knots into faces, jerk-tugging
three tangled leashes, accidentally
slightly choking
the droopy-eyed hound dog,
the lab, and the mutt.
And then, I see you buried within
the wedding photographer’s
close-up shot squint,
or the nervous groom’s
shaky flute lip.
You must live behind some stranger’s
blue wristwatch glass,
keeping time zones straight,
scanning scenes for safety,
like a park-side, single father in coveralls –
one hand clutching the tiny, fleshy fingers
of his new-found son,
the other hand gripping a tart,
green lollipop, both
half-unwrapped and half-cracked.
C.A. MacConnell
