Catharsis Revisited

A revision of my first poem ever published (2011): Catharsis


Is God more God at noon

Or midnight?

Man with neck-beard, plump,

Sits alone at lunch

Pretending to read a newspaper so

No one thinks he’s lonely.

All I know is I’m just a person

With acute desire

For tea on this cloudy morning.

The steam warms my face, clearing

My dry and cracked memories.

After reading an inscription: who

Made my desk in Guatemala?

Does sawdust cloud the factory air?

Does the Maker get splinters often?

Does he have two little boys in a corrugated tin shanty?

Yes. They stare up at him with wide brown eyes. Yes;

They invent games with trash.

I’ve never felt a Canadian winter but

I hear it’s like tyranny.

I think tyranny is a good thing

To dabble in.

But my twin bed is more comfortable:

Enveloped in blankets,

A body pillow my companion.

I want my writing to rival

The experience of being alive, but

I don’t know how to do that without discussing

Stepping on freshly chewed gum.

No matter how thoroughly I scour my shower

It still smells like—dorm shower. I wish I could grow

A flower garden in my bathroom. Certainly someone,

Somewhere, has tried.

A withered, bare-chested old man is clouded by

White hair.

He leans over with a pitcher

And smells jasmine, the humidity of the bathroom

Warming his face.

I saw it coming.

In the end a Couple will stare

Into the familiar set of

Soft hazel eyes, and say I do.

For the Rest the end will scour,

Like the raw skin of a scrape before it starts to bleed,

Like shattered teeth.