Regular Poem: Forget Your Way to the Top

28 Mar

I come back
to a poem
I’d abandoned–
put aside
as my thoughts simmered
or maybe just
forgot themselves–
and I realize

it doesn’t need
the editing
I had been saving it for.

After a week
or a month
or even several months,
I’d been thinking
or having trouble thinking
is irrelevant
and what is
what is
and what should be,
and I like it,
and it tastes
and it’s over,
and it’s complete,
and I go on.

If only
were like this.
I come back
to an old hatred
I’d abandoned–
and the return is accidental–

and there are some
similarities like
I can’t remember
what exactly
I was thinking
when I was previously thinking–
if what I had been doing
could be called thinking–
and now the
shards don’t fit,
disjointed and limping.

But it’s not
over, complete,
and I don’t like
the taste of it,
and I don’t go on.

I sit in it,
a cold bath,
the filmy residue of bubbles
clinging to my flesh,
and I’m blindly
feeling for the plug
so I can drain the tub.

And then it’s over
until the next time it’s not over.

Or a job application.
You send it
into electronic darkness,
and if only you could
forget about it
until the day you go back to it,
and you realize
you have the job
and a new life,
and you’re Rip Van Winkle except
well-adjusted and not decrepit and confused.

Or maybe a puppy.
You have it and hate it;
it’s untrained and wailing and terrible.
And you leave it in a cage and come back to
an adult dog who
doesn’t chew up cords and knows
how to sit pretty.

But there’s something in a poem
that requires, desires
independance, distance,
new old eyes,
a forgetful heart.

A forgetful heart would be
beneficial for
old stupid hatred,
but it can’t raise a dog.

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