I will be there, having done the impractical
and left without warning or a proper coat,
wearing only a light jacket as useless as a paper windsock.
I’ll be there, wondering how it is that
worms got around without legs, how
Constantinople was an inherent negation,
how Swift’s ‘Modest Proposal’ brought itself to bear.
I’ll probably hang in the back, thinking of words
to describe what I’m feeling
after I’ve been there a while, seen
what’s to see,
made the rounds,
peered into other rooms and eavesdropped
on the nattering, fretting, boasting
and postulating. These people simply
have more to say than I, their lips like gaudy parade floats.
I will be there, in all likelihood
looking for people
I hope showed up, steering them toward the mixed nuts
and half barrel so we can catch up
on all that has passed in the ditch between
parallel tracks we aren’t on.
I’ll go by myself so that I feel no obligation
to stay, to make it somehow worthwhile.
I’ll be in the dingy kitchen, unwashed dishes
scattered like dandelion stems, mismatched
plates and cups patterned in the manner of capillaries
strung like Christmas tinsel over bone.
Once I get there, I’ll be the one wandering
like a mountain goat
in valleys of denim, stone sours and furtive skin,
looking to see if it’s true what they say –
that there really is something for everyone.
Recent Lao Poems From The Diaspora
7 months ago