Somewhere over the rainbow
my chronic fidgetiness
is slowly killing itself.
Something inside is
taking back everything
I ever said to you,
the bad, the good and even
the things neither of us remember.
Somewhere I waited by a
telephone too long for
a call to keep me
from breaking water.
I birthed too many panics.
I sounded the horns at the
first pain of the head pushing
through the pelvis.
I am birthing no more babies.
I am fathering no more miracles.
You will never
even read this.
It will burn before
the end of the day.
In town, this city,
except for a light breeze,
seems to stand still, or
at most just slight motions.
The city spirals into me
as the birds sit quietly in trees,
and the cars pull to the curb,
and my head stops aching for once.
And further through me,
the palpitations become manageable,
even my toes groan
as they finally stretch.
The sun is going down on the city.
It has been a labor day.
And the sky turns red,
and this once-pregnant sailor
prepares, at last,
to set sail.
Was playing: Your Ex-Lover Is Dead by
