"What's There"

There's seeing the girl and there's seeing her
switch to a seat farther from you.
There's a red bird and there's a cardinal
freaking from the shrub
to the power lines so quickly
he's like a bright stitch tying the sky
down. Your one vest has just
two buttons strung up with lots
and lots of brittle threads. When
your oven timer fails you yet again
and the firemen put out your supper
just like they did almost every Sunday
for your grandmother who fed you
the thin strip of roast that was neither raw
nor charred, you feel ready
for the public. You watch yourself
in shop windows and there's a walk
and apparently there's a strut
you've never seen. Your father
is a caretaker and your mother
is a caretaker. It takes you forever
to sign off when chatting with your
neighbor. Your acronyms fail you
as they refuse to be quicker
than the full-fleshed sentiment.
There's a field you can mark up
with your footprints and there's nothing
at all. Your ghost is a battery and some kind
of GPS for your body; it drives you
and you welcome the mechanical
voice. It needs a key to get it going.
There it is, going. Everyone takes care.

Copyright © 2010 Dan Rosenberg All rights reserved
from Bateau
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission