Poem Sunday

Repeating

I.

I have nights of being a janitor

in one of those buildings with

unflexing ribs repeating like support beams in a mine shaft

and clear outer walls like an aquarium.

I remove others’ existence,

return formlessness to the cube-sized voids

and with the light switch on my way out,

darkness to the face of the deep.

There is depth in that moment between switches,

for empty has no end, then a flick

and the next switch returns walls.

In my bubble-sized catacomb I can live

when others are dead and die

every morning.

II.

Jesus, did you have nights of being a carpenter?

Back in Galilee or possibly Egypt

smoothing a plane over wooden beams

and burying your feet in wood chips

desiring a home cooked meal by your mother

when your brothers were still your family.

Was it the making of men, breaking down desires

and sending them back to the beginning or

was it the dark hour with its endless possibilities or

the starting over and over

that compelled you to die

and live again?

III.

Of being an alcoholic I sometimes fancy,

but mostly when I am driving

and driving is dear to me.  Do not dull

my sense of paradox in driving:

my body resting, my body flying —

both I know are true but

they cannot know each other.  This

is my time of genius, asking questions

of myself which outside of my car

I cannot answer.

(Jesus, I want to listen to you

but how can I know you have ever wanted

to be someone else, somewhere

other than where you are?)

 Sometimes I have unsolicited trips

when that world inside my car keeps on

beyond its utility of transport.  This

I reckon is my drink, my spirits.

I beg the highway to change its course,

or the map to lie so I can find

myself hung-over somewhere unknown and new.

One state over or a gas tank later

the voice of someone whom I used to listen

tells me I should go back to where I started,

So I do.