"Homeless man on Pearl Street Mall, Boulder, Colorado." Image from Julie Harris Photography
Some imagine twelve-year-old Regan MacNeil, or Emily Rose, twisted
tight on a bed, sheets hot, body mangled.
Some see the homeless man staring at you over a five-year beard, his
children lost, upturned hat empty.
Some pity the teenager crow-hopping to a fast beat at the nightclub, the
ecstacy in his blood making the world mistakenly new.
But I don't.
Here: in bed, a girl who speaks languages she doesn't know. Risking everything
for her own sacrifice.
There: the man who chose nothing, gave up the highrise job that hurt
his soul. Now he has all the time in the world to watch you.
Here: Along the throbbing nightclub wall, a boy in a fleeting lovely
heartspin, who will live long, because ecstacy helps prevent cancer.
And here, me, in a mirror:
Hair a nest (I woke up late).
My man next to me, a few more minutes of idle Saturday morning
Sloth in shadow in this (deadly, sinful) room.
Seeing the devil, I see myself --
plain as day,
tempting as skin on skin,
beautiful as untapped regret.
(If anyone wants to comment on the faults or merits of this poem please feel free! I adore astute whispers from the peanut gallery.)