While I Am Walking

August 7, 2013
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Every time I sit down,
and decide that it is time to write,
I cannot think up but two words that
might sound satisfying,
and as for writing a poem full
with meaning,
I have yet to find one
when the time is intentional.

It is always while I am walking,
or pacing with no pen that I remember
a time when my Grandfather was still alive,
or the homeless man I stopped and talked
with for an hour just before I dropped five
dollars in the guitar case of a rugged street
performer, and sitting down to recollect these
memories, I realize that I am sitting on the very
bench in the park where I sat in silence
next to a women that I loved, and was never
able to tell her exactly how I felt.
And suddenly a pen seems no substitute
for her smile that night, and the conversations
I've had for the past seventeen years
no longer feel as though they can be
repeated with any justice to how much
they meant to me in their respective places
in linear time, and as for how I have
changed the world: I will never know.

And so it becomes
that vague allusions are enough
to satisfy myself in my writing
when I finally do find a pen,
so that from these small catalysts,
more emotion then in strenuous detail can be
discovered in the daydreams
between stanzas;
and it is even more desirable that
a pause of breath between two words
should remind you of a place
that you thought you would never forget.

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