It’s All Relative.

My mother’s voice keeps me still.
I walk backwards.
I have eyes in the back of my head.
My words mean little to anyone else-
I have been raised by a street lamp.
The stars beam down on me.
The wind glistens like rain.
I am desperate for noise,
for music-the clarinet just won’t do.
Did I just say that? I didn’t mean
how it sounded;
didn’t mean the words that came
from my mouth,
that were uprooted from the ground.
I take myself out for lunch at McDonald’s,
and drive home to read a new Danielle Steele
novel.
This is the extent of my day.
It makes me happy.