SKIN
Skin is a bizarre conversation.
What’s it matter that yours is smooth as butter
and hers is as wrinkled as a spoiled peach.
Of all the things to examine under the microscope,
why the mole, why the solitary hair, why the liver spot?
And yet you sit
discussing creams and solutions,
destructive wind, cruel central heating,
the gorgeous evil of the sun.
Your mother believes her death
is written in the papery texture of her arms,
the loose flaps around her knuckles.
Your sister rues her cheeks’ years of neglect.
A grandchild wonders will she ever be happy.
The answer’s never “Ask your father”
but solicit the acne creeping up her chin.
And even I am at it,
face against mirror, eyes no longer about colour
but their crows’ feet condemnation.
If only someone would just turn out the light.
We could sit in silence, listen to our hearts beat.
A less reproachful conversation would ensue.
For beneath the skin, skin is never mentioned.
KICKING THE NOSTALGIA KICK
Don’t want to remember childhood.
Too many forbidden sweets.
Words of affection not spoken.
And I was thumped by the bully
ten thousand times.
And what about the teachers
Fingers pointed at me.
“You! What’s the answer? You!”
And whenever I misbehaved,
chalk whistled past my ear.
Today, I am fiercely in charge of my life.
I eat what I like.
And who cares who loves me.
I’m inside my flesh
and that is enough.
The bullies are on TV, the radio.
I turn them all off.
And there are no teachers.
And, even if they asked me the question,
I’d know the answer.
And how can a man misbehave
when he’s the one holding the chalk.
Fine weather. Good food.
A pretty woman on my arm.
This is the golden age of who I am.
Enough with the nostalgia.
Childhood should remember now.
ROWBOAT
In the rowboat of life,
love is the oars.
Did I say that?
No, what I meant was
that for the loose pages
of people,
the book binding is love.
More to the point,
love is like
finding a really good article
about nuclear fission
in the magazine
that someone left behind
in the bathroom.
And love’s like
when the cashier
gives you too much change
and you don’t say a thing.
No, that’s stealing.
But isn’t love stealing
from all the hate, the sadness,
even the disinterest,
in the world.
Why don’t we go rowing
on the lake
and talk about it.
I’ll bring the oars.
You can bring the oars.
