the elephant

I lock my best ideas

In a chest

And bury it in the depths

Of Pearl Street.

And I’m left with

A tension headache and

Suffocating frustration,

An empty hand choking

A pen full to the brim

From the heights

Of St. Nicholas.

Now I’m reminded,

I’ve never quite grasped

The disposition

Or the recipe

For a worry-free spirit.

The elephant that divides

Myself and some,

And welds me

Kindred with others

Is tattered

And occasionally frail

And when it rains

Its hip aches

And it travels like

A disordered socialite

With a cause,

Which it offers to

An impressionable room.

Its conscience is served

Upon two open palms

Because you can’t feel

Its pulse on a platter.

Admittedly,

This all can change

With each dizzying day.

My idiosyncrasies,

The lightning veins

Framing these

Hardwearing thighs,

It’s clear now

That they serve me.

You never have to

Turn the big light on

To feel me in the room.

Meet me at the centerline.

Perhaps I’ll even

Recede a touch

For I won’t go

Grabbing any longer.

These two open palms

Should be plenty.

- M. Rose

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