Pain and Mirror
By Jacqueline Newman-Speiser
This is what you are waiting for,
not William Shatner coming into your room
wearing old school go-go boots,
and thanking his Agent, and that
Voo-doo vending fortune teller machine
from a black and white luncheonette on TV
and is only remembered,
in intricate detail, like the hair that follows a line
from your throat to your belly,
and past the pant line,
button fly, as only you can,
for balance is part of your act.
This is exactly what you are waiting for,
so happily presented, costumed and innocent,
housewife, aviator, Rabbi, millionaire, friend,
elegantly sporting crotchless underwear, Ivy League plaid.
just like the hole in a bagel, invisible, priced less for less,
look again, for they never took anything away,
orphans are fooled by TV too,
no one ever had anything to begin with.
This is what you are waiting for, but deserve better,
what game pity plays robs the spine,
in the Heavenly future, in front or above,
adds dimension, to a board game,
close enough to bored game,
and the wheels on the bus go round and round
when we get on board we should be holding a ticket.
This is what you do at a bus stop, you wait.
Some people dream, some people can't,
reading is not a crime, though we know writing is,
and on a bus, we can have a bedroom built for two,
or 2011, in case of emergencies,
like finding a muse, or playing with fire,
it's the smoke that tells them where you are.
This is not a profound play about you,
or a beat up Porsche somewhere near hay,
but it's for you, and only you will know this,
words can not make up life, they can only destroy it,
unless one testifies to the Testament,
old or new, something broken, something Jew,
this stop is where it stopped,
no ticket now to make it go away,
we can't carry lip gloss on a plane.