from my first collection, Meteorology
Then this happens, so that happens. And you're older again.
The sky, a cast iron door, shuts without your consent:
Some sickly stars. De-ja vu
Is what happens when you know you could stop.
All this thinking, and you're still there.
Not even the right questions. So you put it down
To the long commute home. Open a beer.
It's hard enough just making friends.
Just making the time to eat right and shower.
To visit the zoo, see the cheetahs,
And still speak the enemy's language.
Dignity and another word for what it takes to survive.
The way they pace around. As if someone, some intimation tells them to
Make this smaller place their own. Tells them, yes. Tells them a lie.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
First published in The Northwest Review
Return to Home Page
images and text © by Alpay Ulku
