Every 1: 27am I come to my garage And I sit with wine And converse with An out-of-place nightstand, June bugs aimlessly run into Stacked boxes and Heartbroken drywall wink At my knuckles, Only tangibility could express the Scattered personality of this garage But somehow I feel at home, Unplugged freezers, Shop brooms drenched in sawdust, Broken hockey sticks, Half stained 2x4's Clout my memories with Wanting to be young again, Shooting pucks with dad, Having laughs roll Off my tongue again, Sweeping grass off The driveway, and watching My sister fail at riding a bike, Now she's going to university And I'm sweeping up Cigarette butts in this garage, I still see the skateboard I broke my wrist on and I Have to work in the morning, At 1: 53 I'm rolling up news papers And hitting curve balled June bugs and I have To cut this short cause My girlfriend called and she needs A ride home from the bar //
I shivered in the quiet Late winter evening When some days feel like spring. This was not a spring time poseur. It was late winter Through and through. I wrapped my coat tighter As I walked down the cracked sidewalk In my old white chucks, Jeans, and a lumpy blue sweater.
The church wasn't quiet That Thursday evening There was a fundraising dinner for missions And we hadn't quite finished setting up. The wealthy mingled With the middle-class and the homeless. No one knew or cared for the difference. We were putting forks, and spoons, and knives On the round tables Together.
I followed the old lady in charge As she told me to get this, get that, Find something or another In the chaotic decorating closet, 105. Room one-oh-five. That old lady is something else. Short of stature, But not lacking in attitude, A penchant for wreaking havoc, And one of the most wonderful people I know.
She was there, with her gray-blue eyes And slow Southern drawl, Talking to another lady. Visibly uncomfortable, Out of place. Wiry black hair, Turning gray around her face, Eyes fretful and brow Creased with worry.
I hadn't seen her before. Her name was written in Scratchy script on a laniard Which means that she is homeless.
I said hello, introduced myself, And went about my work. She worked alongside me, As we were given tasks In hasty preparation For the dinner.
We worked in silence For some time, not awkward, Just busy. She began to talk. I wasn't paying close attention at first. But I quickly realized she was telling me her story.
That's all we have, you know? Our story is the only thing people can't take away. They can't take away who we are, In the narrow confines of our skull, And whatever else there may be.
I had a hunch she was new to being homeless. A hunch that she confirmed. The seasoned and practiced have a look to them, And the new have a look to them, And you get accustomed to it After some time.
Her husband abused her And she couldn't take it anymore She had two kids, Both in a local high school. I don't know where they are. She doesn't know how she's going to pay for college When she's out on the streets. She doesn't know what to do Where to go How to work the system just to get by.
This is what I know: These people I've come to love Just want to be useful To have a purpose.
We're all going to be big stars one day, right? What about them? We all want to change the world. But we can't do it with our eyes only looking in the mirror And our hearts cold.
He had brought The Mahler 5th And a bottle of wine.
He sat in her Dim lit lounge On her white sofa.
She put the Mahler On her hi-fi, poured Two glasses of wine.
He gazed around the room: The paintings, low brow, A few photos of her family.
She entered With the glasses of wine And put them down On the table.
The music unfolded In the room.
She sat beside him Picking up a glass.
He sipped his wine.
They lay back together And kissed.
She talked of her son A police officer.
He talked of the psychology Of Reich and the sexual revolution.
They drained their glasses. She drew the curtains.
They undressed Ready for bed.
The third movement Of the symphony began; The theme familiar Inside his head.
evening.
Author: Terry Collett
0
Date: 03/04/2020
¹ 1202908
Late in the evening
People ask why I'm so tired when it's around the time of 10 in the morning. I say that it's because I just couldn't sleep... That's only partially true, because late in the evening what I think about is blue, actually it isn't that color but this is what people say I'm like when I feel this way. Late in the evening my life is being clouded by the blue that people say is the true color of sadness. My sadness doesn't have a true color it's a tie dye of all my old memories because it seems like they don't exist anymore. All it seems like anymore is the grey tint of the skin around my eyes when I look into the mirror. Late in the evening my sadness is an illness that makes my whole body ache, it's like an earthquake went through my heart and the waves of destruction afterwards never went away. I guess what I'm trying to say is that late in the evening I'm just hoping that the tie dye of my memories will slowly fade away and become the echoes of my sadness that would not be surrounding me any longer, but I guess for now I will just have to wait.
Went up a year this evening! I recollect it well! Amid no bells nor bravoes The bystanders will tell! Cheerful—as to the village— Tranquil—as to repose— Chastened—as to the Chapel This humble Tourist rose! Did not talk of returning! Alluded to no time When, were the gales propitious— We might look for him! Was grateful for the Roses In life's diverse bouquet— Talked softly of new species To pick another day; Beguiling thus the wonder The wondrous nearer drew— Hands bustled at the moorings— The crown respectful grew— Ascended from our vision To Countenances new! A Difference—A Daisy— Is all the rest I knew!
