Bess Kemp

And so...

The sky is a clean blue
with persistent clouds like
images on cameo glass
we take polaroid memories
so many of them
fingers from a glove that
is now missing
wading through days we
never stopped long enough
to taste each one as it
signs on the freeway are
flares for our folly
we learned some lessons
after all
but too late
to really matter


Mop to floor to bucket
to floor again he
worked with eyes
glazed over by the
years he had seen slip into
drains along with
the mop water and he
wondered just how
he could
disappear like that

ealized Early On...

I sit alone
and watch the sun
paint patterns
on the carpet
I envy its talent
so I write about it
and a few other things
knowing I will always
be eclipsed


He surveys his life
like a stretch of
a road to nowhere
he wishes he was
anywhere but here
standing in the center
painting broken yellow lines
to pass the time
the journey is filled
with a lot of nothing
and a little of something
and he never knew
when it might suddenly
be worth his while