You, Me

You, Me

You parade on the wet sidewalk while I push my hands

into my pockets, the echoing clomp of your boots

unanswered by the hushed step of my old sneakers.

Your gold curls bounce in the night air while I make sure

my hair ribbon is still in place. I step silently

into puddles when you’re not looking.

We walk under a lamp, your cream skin and my caramel

emerging from the darkness.  The lenses

of our glasses glint, yours in beat to the music of your IPod.

You still strut, and the corners of my mouth

turn up as I try not to laugh.  “What?” you ask smiling,

“you know you can’t rock these boots like I can.”

“Maybe not,” I think while my shoes leave wet prints,

a hundred subtle clues to what I’ve done.  They’d teach you

about me, but you don’t notice.  This night confirms

though you’re my friend, you haven’t met me yet. 

American Sonnets Revised

The Watchers

I glimpse my face held captive in their eyes,  
Small mirrors, glass or plastic.  They don’t blink,
But sit on shoebox shelves and wonder where
Their child has gone. Who is this in her place?
Without her, legs are still and voices mute.
Fur tipped ears collect dust and backs crease.
Small hugs are unaccepted.  Yet they smile,
Awaiting her return.
                                                 I’ll not be back. 

My arms no longer rush to their embrace,
And childlike love turns into fond mem’ry.     
I’m not the girl they knew, though they’ve not changed,
In their purpose to love and receive life.
So as they watch and smile, I’ll smile too,
Kiss one’s small plastic nose,
                                                   Pretend it sighs. 

Flu

Three cups of ginger ale – I remain ill.
I want fresh air but feel I would collapse
Before I reached the far-off bedroom door.
Weak arms and legs make hills from my covers.
I cannot read, can only sit, sip, munch
On crackers, toast, and rice, slurp applesauce. 
Oliver Twist is read into my ear –
I’ve had enough of my own suffering. 

Out my window, college life continues
On the grounds of my new independence.
Backpacked figures tromp in whirligig snow,
Chasing down success, their own affliction,

Unconscious this same illness put me here,
Caused me to know confinement, chicken soup.  

American Sonnet 3/5/13

The Watchers 

I glimpse my face held captive in their eyes,
Small mirrors, glass or plastic. They don’t blink,

But sit on shoebox shelves and wonder where

Their child has gone. Who is this in her place?

Without her, legs are still and voices mute.

Fur tipped ears collect dust and backs crease.

Small hugs are unaccepted.  Yet they smile,

Awaiting her return.

                                                  I’ll not be back. 

My arms no longer rush to their embrace,

And childlike love has turned to nostalgia. 

I’m not the girl they knew, though they’ve not changed,

In their purpose to love and receive life.

So as they watch and smile, I’ll smile too,

Kiss one’s small plastic nose,

                                                     Pretend it sighs. 

American Sonnet 2/26/13

Flu

Three cups of ginger-ale and I'm still ill.
I want fresh air but feel as if I would
Collapse before I reached the bedroom door,
My legs and arms as weak as they are now.
I cannot read, can only sit, sip, munch
On crackers, toast and rice, slurp applesauce.
Oliver Twist is read into my ear -
I've had enough of my own suffering.

Outside my window, college life begins
On the grounds of my new independence.
Backpacked figures tromp through whirling snow, un-
Conscious they're observed by feverish specters.
Not valuing their freedom, unaware
Of ruined plans, confinement, chicken soup.