Postcard from the Pillow
the world i have discovered
is full of more than sunsets and dreams
are not the only reason for being
sorry to leave you to sleep without me
supporting your head (if i had feet
i would stand by my decision) the world
is full of leaves and waking people
not limited by the fading colors
of sheets not tucked in and
not apologetic i am travelling
through a world so full of skyscrapers
and fireworks so full so full I bet you
wish you were here
Photo by Jane Kokernak.
What the Pillow Said
All my life since the factory
I have lain on this one bed,
Cushioning the dreaming night
Visions of this one young man’s head
As they wandered through
The dizzy saturation of pictures–
Friends, storybook monsters–all blue
With memory. My job was clear
And without significant interest:
Make a soft place, put up here
And there with drool or even
The occasional murmur or snore.
So when he moved out of the dorm
I saw my chance and, leaping
From atop the laundry basket
Of despair, I fell. Keeping
Company with a telephone pole
For the last three nights and days
Has been eye-opening (or would have,
If I had eyes). Cars drive through haze
Into a future I could not imagine
Back then, before their journey showed
Me possibilities for adventure,
Before today began my life on the road.
This poem is for Jane Kokernak of Leaf, Stitch Word, who saw this sight and wondered what I would make of it. “I don’t know why,” she said. “Because I write about weird shit,” I answered. “Oh, that’s true. You do.” Natch.
She asked me why a street might need its own
Pillow, off-white against concrete, light
And fluffy when compared to tar, all crabbed
And broken from wheels and feet and packages
Dropped, lives dropped. What moving student
Dropped the pillow, distracted, overloaded, and
Eager for freedom in a new space of his own?
No matter. No man’s pillow now resides here
In no-man’s land, as everyman tramples this
Sidewalk, proceeding from home to work,
From bliss to worries and woes. The sidewalk
Itself wearies from the eternal sickly glow of
Streetlamps, damp leaves, cigarette ends still
Smoking themselves. The sidewalk longs for sleep.
Now, Jane, send me the picture and I will write the other half of this poem…
buildingapoem 