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