On cold winter mornings in Santiago, I wanted a typewriter — I looked at the machines in the repairman's window each day as I walked to work — There was winter prose, trapped in the keys, waiting liberation — I always passed by, never entering once — All that English still languishes cold in Chilean solitary.
Waiting is gray and cold even in summer — Jorge waits in line two hours a day — And Norman says when he's in line he's doing something wrong — Queue shortening, fruit ripening, tank filling, baby entering world, life ending, most tedious of all — Always in the future, unfulfilled anxiety.
Friends, lovers and enemies are the line — Alive, feeding itself each other's memories fusion of parallel parts, forming and reforming during lifetimes — I intersect an instant and live a series of isolations in a queue alone forever and quickly forgotten.
Two old cats live with me, as healthy as two year olds, each patiently hating the other and loving me these many years — Universal constants, I should have named them Hubble and Heisenberg.
Rolls, babysitter, medicine, coffee, you're on my mind — Try to work, talk, talk, talk, you're still there — Checks, flowers, books, (once, you wrote to me) Cook, dishes, pack, eat (your eyes across the table) Tired, exhausted, lonely, sleep — bed.
A spruce of some sort, dense with painful needles — Somewhat taller than the six year old who had taken a sudden interest in something other than a Star Pine bent double with its weight again in ornaments — After twenty years, that scent of indoor conifer was ecstatic.
Today, I talked and talked about bacteria and other little things — I talked and talked and talked while snow fell outside, silently, gently, adding onto itself, blurring my morning tracks, burying my car, erasing colors, blacks and grays — I left my white board covered with red circles, blue arrows and black words, And entered my white world, soft white mounds on flat white planes, white sky, white air — Speechless and lost.