The Lovely Songbird

The songbird sings
better than I can.
She paints
visual storybooks
and she sings
better than I can.

Long hair,
eyelashes,
fingers,
and legs.

She doesn't even know I still exist.
She doesn't know
and she sings.
Better than I can.

Late to rise.

Ultimately
we all mess it up.
Undoubtedly
we find ourselves wasted
and worn.

I would like to see the man
who never gets it wrong.
Who makes every decision
perfectly and accepts
every compliment
graciously.

Keeps his elbows off the table
and a starched press to his shirt.
Minds his cufflinks and stays
and never has spinach
caught between his teeth
when he smiles at
a pretty girl.

Sometimes I wonder if
I would want to be
him.

Sometimes.

Maybe sometimes.

But mostly
I just sleep in
and try not to let it all
get me down.

The Symphony of the Senses

I am so tired
of 0's and 1's.
I have been digitized,
my life,
my friends,
my world.

I got in the car
and felt the key
hard
in my hand.

Anatomical fireworks
exploded and
I,
real muscle and bone,
turned the key and
the engine turned over.

I drove to the bookstore.
I had to touch knowledge.
I needed a tactile reminder
that everything isn't all
0 and 1
and 0.

I needed to touch
the greats
and feel them
touch me back.