A Model Year (Part 4 of 5)

There are no rules for this. Things are easier
when there's a code of behavior. Waiting

for Saturday to pass into Sunday & Sunday
into the work week so one knows what to do

with their time. Language neither the problem
nor the cure, just something to occupy myself with.

No one taught me the softness of the quilt
against my cheek. It was something I could only

learn myself. No one taught me how to deal
with emotion. How to handle restless nights.

& so I lied when I said I didn't know how
I got here: a series of bad mistakes & misjudgments.

A touch of idealism. Hope then disappointment.
Really I've traveled nowhere. Standing in the same place

for three years. Still wearing the same blue jeans,
only now a hole in the knee.

* * *

After three years, the skin is a little thicker.
Bruises have come & gone. The body moves

between sickness & health, slips between sheets
each night. There may be new scars, a story for each.

It's easy to pretend nothing exists outside
your four corners, your own little concerns.

Easy to turn off the tv & not read the papers.
It's easier not to make decisions but to just allow

things to happen, hereby escaping any culpability.
Blame it on bad luck & not bad decisions.

A blank page can mean a fresh start or nothing
to say. This line of thought will continue &

I can map its progress, using tacks & colored string.
It's easy to pretend that I'm the only one who feels

this way, or feels anything so acutely. Confusing
one's self for the center of the world, & then

news of a death in the family, a roadside bomb, &
protesters killed by their government shatters everything.