Danish Modern is a style of furniture, kind of stark and modern. This poem isn't about furniture, by the way.
And someone is leaving and someone is coming
Arrivals and Departures, Departures and Arrivals
But I get stuck in the duty free
Pricing Chanel cosmetics, how many krona to the dollar?
Were you waiting for the conversation that we
Never had?
The one that would settle everything
That crossed the bridges of time and sex and loneliness.
I keep my mouth, legs, mind crossed.
We just don't want to know what's really real.
Either one of us. Both so afraid of death. Of life.
Of what we'll have to give up next. Our sanity.
Our youth.
Lord, let me keep my illusions. My dreams.
They bring us down to their level. To the
Piss on the bathroom floor.
Hardwood floors and we're late for the plane.
Hurry, hurry. I don't want to spend one more minute
In this city, county, continent.
So tired now. Think I'll stop being what you
Wanted me to be. Stop being that person.
Maybe I'll find out something, anything.
Daddy, why did you have all the answers?
And me all the questions?
Like the planes the price of gas just goes up, up, up.
© 2006 Anne Westlund
Poetry by Anne Westlund
Read 988 times
Written on 2006-10-15 at 09:45
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Danish Modern
When the dark falls across the airport carpet,And someone is leaving and someone is coming
Arrivals and Departures, Departures and Arrivals
But I get stuck in the duty free
Pricing Chanel cosmetics, how many krona to the dollar?
Were you waiting for the conversation that we
Never had?
The one that would settle everything
That crossed the bridges of time and sex and loneliness.
I keep my mouth, legs, mind crossed.
We just don't want to know what's really real.
Either one of us. Both so afraid of death. Of life.
Of what we'll have to give up next. Our sanity.
Our youth.
Lord, let me keep my illusions. My dreams.
They bring us down to their level. To the
Piss on the bathroom floor.
Hardwood floors and we're late for the plane.
Hurry, hurry. I don't want to spend one more minute
In this city, county, continent.
So tired now. Think I'll stop being what you
Wanted me to be. Stop being that person.
Maybe I'll find out something, anything.
Daddy, why did you have all the answers?
And me all the questions?
Like the planes the price of gas just goes up, up, up.
© 2006 Anne Westlund
Poetry by Anne Westlund
Read 988 times
Written on 2006-10-15 at 09:45
Tags Anger
Save as a bookmark (requires login) Write a comment (requires login) Send as email (requires login) Print text
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