Sunday, December 6, 2009

Interest Rate

Most days I try. I try to slip by.
And hide behind the veil of my double screens, bury what it means and just do the work.
I click, scroll and roll into the next sometimes perplexed by what it is I am doing.
What it is I am not doing.
What it is.
Yes, most days I try. I try to slip by
And not plead my case to an indifferent race as I tap myself to death.
I take a deep breath.
Then move on, give in, forever pinned between what is right and what is true.
Between that and myself, I cannot find my way back through the crack that is my childhood
And I watch my son as he carries the weight of me on his shoulders
Like a boulder
Weighing him down when all he wants to do is run
Be the sun
And burn. As bright as any day
He wants to move his world with his might, not insight or experience or knowledge
Not worrying about college, a career or what comes next
Not perplexed by war, or daily compounded interest rates
Or how a collar irritates when cinched by corporate ties
Adulterated lies.
No, he wants to move his world with his might, the light of his sun
My son, his light.
So through that crack that is childhood, which is not the same, I see my daughter, and she is not the same, already becoming maimed by the weight of me on her shoulders
Like a boulder,
weighing her down when all she wants to do is run, be the sun and burn,
A bright as any day
She wants to move the world with her grace, that shining face not this space that is cluttered with words uttered like, “act your age”.
Which is only seven
She should have her slice of heaven,
not turned to tears by the twist of my years and the baggage that comes with them
Not worry about what’s next,
not perplexed by health care and the socio economic impact of where she was born
why this country is torn, ripped at the seams by what it means to be republican or democrat.
To be black or white, gay or strait
Why the promised land even needs a gate.
She just wants to run, like the Midwest sun across the day until light becomes dusk becomes night
Where she will give her pinks and her purples and her yellows and blues to the moon,
Which she once thought I could hang for her
And as I look through this crack that is childhood which is not the same, I see you, my wife,
And you are not the same
with the weight of me on your shoulders, like a boulder that will not roll
I remember when all you wanted to do was run, find the sun and feel its burn
Get your turn
But now you worry about what comes next, perplexed by what it means to be a woman. A Mother. A teacher
Wondering if you can even reach her, that child left behind in a city turned blind and our neighbors that don’t mind
My daily grind
I just add rocks on a pile of rocks you have been moving around your whole life
Pressed against your skin like sin that will not hang on its cross, recognize your loss or realize its cost
Like a daily compounded interest rate.
Like snow in April
Like a season that has overstayed its welcome

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