In Restructuring
In remembering the brand name beer on the bar glass, there is a noticing of the dyed
hair of the woman with the corgi, taking in the grilled onions and burnt brat.
In taking bartenders advice, the whisper about plumbers crack on stools. In the
grains of the wood. In trying to describe an evergreen to a recently blinded
desert transplant who sings an old song not a minute too soon in an ally and a dark
warm minute. In restructuring life to re-include collections, of salts, of blinds, of who to
complain about to your landlord, who to complain about to your uncle. In retiring phrases
from you vocabulary upon return and holding judgement for a later date. In rewriting
a popular account of your failure as an adult. In stoping your self from fastdancing in
a slowdance bar.
Escape From Green Lake
I don't want to hear about your
cleanse.
I don't want to hear about your
new joggable
stroller or
the ways jogging
and yoga pants
work the same in
kegels.
I just want to paddle my way off beaver island, where I've lived
off nuts and berries for the last ten years, occasionally impersonating
an emaciated sasquatch, and find my way to the concrete path
where
I got swept with babysitting
skaters, their clean smiles
and taught
thighs and
screaming eight year olds back into
the fray of failed body surfers
drunk fishermen
and ducks.
I wanted to get free
but like gilligan
there's no getting off
of this island.
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