|
|
david lee wright
Substitute
It is a good day, just kind of scattered. The geometry of the situation proved circular and heavy, not at all an onus of any kind but instead something to be envious about, if you're that kind of person. I like the young way she moved, who cares if she is only a substitute. I decided immediately not to mind. That may have been my objective in the first place, to not think about anything, especially repercussions. Some how she new I had green eyes before she told me to take off my sunglasses. Demanding to be sure not to confuse desire with expected outcome. But that was just my fantasy I'll admit. If she would have asked about me and all my past experience before telling me to take off my sunglasses I might have the chance to act like an asshole or say something embarassing. It wasn't like that.
She was in control.
I like to feel saved. I feel best when being held onto isn't thought of as abstract or out of the way. Where is all the comfort? Where is all the pleasure? When will being grown up feel grown up? When can I be responsible enough to keep those hands on my shoulders, there to comfort me, happy to be of assistance, knowing I'm needed as much as I'm giving. Love spends far to much time in Sisyphus' grip. All that and I still want to be cool.
I like drugs but I'm sober now. I like sex but I'm alone now. I like rock and roll but punk still holds on. If I could hold the ladder while she climbed we could tape each other up to the undersides of clouds and the coffee wouldn't have a hard time seeping through to shampoo our hair, it would rain energy and felt up under the skirt, at the movies, one hand wishing forever for and maybe getting if we can connect, freedom. It is raining outside the classroom. Rain that isn't as real as coffee but as romantic and cold when the heat has been turned off. I can jump across every puddle, mutate every language writing on the wall to be alright, for now. Let there be grief another day. Let someone else take over at the news desk and beam out the loquacity of the day. I'll sit back, lean back, to learn and let her teach.
Channel one, channel two, channel three deliver me unto the irrepressible frontside grind of the truth without all the yapping in our ears. Turn down the static. Reach for a book, or a kiss. There is more before us this night, these days, than "What's really going on."
I don't mind being the student. I'm just tired of being turned on by substitutes.
Want to respond to this short story? Do it here!
Return to Poetry
|
|
|
|
