The Nap

I slept on the sofa
Lulled by the whir
Of the ceiling fan
And the steely gray of the sky
Not a foreboding gray but
One full of the promise of warm rain
The kind against which
I did not draw the blinds.
And outside the window
I heard the lady neighbors
Enjoying the first laughter
Of spring
The warmth of pavement under their feet
And the way their voices once again
echoed around the lot.
And with my eyes sliding shut
I painted the scene in my mind
So I would remember it was a good day.

Noise

I hold my hand up
against the din of the world
fighting the noise.
The pointless
irrational
soul-destroying
Noise.
Lost somewhere in there
I know
is the relative silence
of dreams and youth
and the simple belief
in hope.

Today the tears dried
But still no relief
And tomorrow the
Rage subsides
But still no relief
Only when the dreams die
Can she begin to breathe.

Life...

How did I get here?
How, in the name of God, did I get here? Sitting at my desk, the door shut, the tears streaming down my face. My hatred for my job, my life, the world in general building and welling up out of me in frustrated streams. My stomach sick, my head throbbing and every inch of me feeling alien. Is this what I created? Is this pathetic recurrence of a pathetic moment the result of my own doing?

How did I get here? I am 30 years old, that fine age when the vitality of youth is tempered with just enough life experience to allow one to move with energy and passion in a chosen direction, a time when life has substance, meaning, purpose. I am surrounded by this recognition in my peers: all around me they have graduated from the hapless, delightful ignorance of their twenties to families, careers, vocations. To life. I feel that, despite my pleas to the world to hold the train, it boarded gleefully, leaving me at some abandoned depot as a left-behind, an almost, a passenger perpetually waiting.

I tried to make the train. I had my schedule, my itinerary, I packed for warm weather and cold. I had back-up maps and contact information and everything I needed for the trip. I thought, “I am ready, world. Take me.” And now here I sit prepared for an adventure that I’m not on. The years I spent getting ready – the schooling, the jobs, the love – seem heavy now, more load than I anticipated, crowding me here on the platform. They look ridiculous, superfluous trappings whose purpose no longer seems valid.

I was close – so close; I could feel the wind from the passing dreams, the hopes and aspirations barreling along the track. All I had to do was reach out and flag them down, harness them, make them mine!

I had gotten comfortable waiting, though. I felt sure there would be another train. I questioned the safety – wasn’t it moving just a bit too fast? Is it an express? Will I have a chance to change trains if I get on the wrong line? Is there an emergency brake, a conductor, anyone in control besides me? I don’t have the experience to drive a train! I’m not ready!

And so it passed. And so it passed.

And I am the lonely passenger, a fare paid but no destination. A coward left alone in a once-bustling station. I am humiliated at standing here alone, at missing the train, at my excessive luggage, at my worthless itinerary, at my inability to find the next scheduled train. I am tired, here. I am sore from the hard bench. My heart aches from the strangeness of my surroundings. My head spins at the confusion of my life, at the frustration, the bitterness, the fear eating at my soul.

How did I get here? And why can’t I leave?

The Triathlon

My heart swells with pride
as you gasp for breath,
at this moment, you question
your sanity: you are only one-third done.
But you are my rock.
And you speed away, the
background, our nation’s history,
a blur to you. I scream and yell and try
desperately to capture this moment, your moment,
on film. And wait for your return. And watch
and scream with the hundreds of others
unable to ignore the power of the body, of the
Moment, of the feeling of conquering – fear, doubt,
self-consciousness. They are dissolved here
at our feet, with each stroke, each stride, they fade. And
you, all of you, are stronger.
You return.
Strong, solid, amazing.
And you are off, running, pounding the earth
with the solidity of your form.
I make my way to the end, to wait, to cheer, to
be caught up in the emotion of the finish,
The final push.
You come through, jubilant, triumphant.
I run to you, but step back to watch
you and him and her and everyone
soaked in the sweat of their efforts
gleaming in the sun, radiating with the
power of what was accomplished. And in
that moment, I am thankful for the hot day, the sweat
that hides my quiet tears.