Waiting for the Bluebird of Happiness
I could have been better. I know that.
But I was asking questions that could
not be answered. My spells turned out
to be voluntary and self-sustaining.
The vast fields I traversed
were greener than my waistcoat
traded from an armless man
who needed fresh shoes.
We all live in our own little dream.
If I gaze at my hands I feel
waves of blue-grey guilt,
and a wish to run at the field ram
harassing the billowy sheep
in order to relieve myself of this feeling.
The ram always wins, so no guilt
would stem from that collision.
Yoga Mat
Give me shelter or simply take away my boots
so I may better freeze to death on this yoga mat
and leave all my worldly belongings to another
broken person, or a cat who needs somewhere
to rest it’s little head. I’m easy to please, man,
just give me a chance to show you I’m as human
as anyone else on the planet, albeit I’m nowhere
as good as most people. My mother dropped me
on my head when I was a toddler, after my father
dropped her on her head. What goes around,
they say, those people who always have something
to add that makes no difference to anything.
Hey, don’t get down watching me lie upon
a stinking yoga mat I found in a trashcan.
I wore it like Rambo for a while, but it lacked
gravitas and made it hard to defend myself
against gremlins and demons and warlocks.
They all come for me at night, that’s the thing.
They won’t leave me alone. In the pitch black
darkness they can handle me with many hands.
Otherwise the tiger in the tank reverses course
and without delay roars out from the gas cap.
That’s the story from the jungle, friends.
Take us home now, Jerome, we have horses
to feed and cows to milk and a small black cat
waiting for a cozy yoga mat to call it a day.
Comforting the Enemy
Show me the way to the bedroom,
I’m so tired I could sleep for a year.
Don’t be afraid of the bandages.
Tomorrow, medics will change them.
But show me the way to the bedroom,
don’t be afraid, I will not harm you.
Don’t be alarmed, we are just people.
Yes, I am less than I was, nevertheless …
I only want to sleep the sleep
of the nearly doomed, of the blessed.
Fluff up the pillow for me, please,
my hands were lost in the war.
Some say the war isn’t over,
I say it’s over for me. Do you agree?
Pull the blankets to my throat, dear,
same reason as before.
Sicilian Canadian poet and short story writer Salvatore Difalco lives in Toronto, Canada. Recent work appears in RHINO Poetry, Third Wednesday, and E-ratio.
