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Six Years Ago

That spring the silk worms were everywhere:
they billeted from shadowy trees
like little green Ninjas.  They took over

the camp, crawled over tables,
dropped in our hair from sinuous threads.
We ran into the sun to get away

from them, played Frisbee
on a dirt road while cars took turns
looking for campsites.  We had nothing

else to do, played for hours, played
until our hands were blistered and raw.
That night squadrons of mosquitoes bombed
us, so we retreated to our tent.

It rained for two days.
Our tent leaked.

We emerged from the gravel and the mud
only to find that the temperature had dropped
and the showers required exact change.  When we

got out, and had wrestled the spiders
to a standstill, we packed our gear and left,
joked about it all the way home.
Then our gear was stolen. 

This was six years ago.
The worms were green.
The Frisbee was purple.

You and I were naked in our sleeping bags
while around us the world came out to fight.

Now, it is just
you and me.

Sandbox

Somewhere in my past
are four boards and a pile of sand.
Shovels, pails, digging equipment of all kinds.
I was young, full of the business
of wonderment and joy.
Your basic kid.

See, I have already begun to lie to you.
There were never any boards, shovels or pails.
Just a pile of sand on the back porch.
I was a pre-teenager in love
with the formative power of my hands.
I sat and dreamed of cities, made roads and monsters
while my father looked out the back window
frowning.

This Pen, This Paper

Water dripping in the toilet—
Bills on the table under a yellow light—
Bitter espresso in a cup—

This pen poised in the air, hovering
    like an unformed thought
This paper below, a receiving blanket
    a safety net, a field of snow
    on a television between channels

Ringing in my ears—
Air conditioner's silk and steel labor—
    $75.03 . . . drip, drip, drip—
    $24.63 . . . the curtains billowing—

This pen, this paper:
A birth or a suicide—
If I say "pregnant pen," I lose the safety net
And what about the TV?

This high-pitched sound—
This steady rush of air—
This slow accretion of ideas—
    . . . finally, a ballast

This forward-moving shadow
Urging the pen downward
    where tip meets top
    and the first looping arc cries for life

White-Cheeked Gibbon

How long has the white-cheeked gibbon waited
for me, swinging through the years
for just this moment to stop and exchange glances?

What does he think from his perch
atop fake tree on fake rock island?
His face is a mask, though he presents
a certain air of ennui, as though he has seen
a thousand like me before, and will again
and again.

Finally, he turns his back to me,
hunkers his head and props himself
against a branch above.  In moments
he has stopped moving.  

I presume that he has fallen asleep,
although one never knows—
he might be communicating
the deep shame he feels of 
always being onstage
with no script.   

© All Copyright, 2000, Steve Mueske.
All Rights Reserved. Printed By Permission.