Spiritually, I’m stranded
in the Valley of Dry Bones,
arid
parched,
isolated,
desiccated,
nothing left of me but dust.
But our cupboards are bare.
We need, at the very least,
the stuff of stone soup.
I drag myself to the super market,
prop my carcass on a cart.
I go shopping.
My ship of purpose has gone down.
I cling to a twig,
treading water, and treading,
and treading, and treading,
exhausted from all this
staying in one place.
But it’s Christmas.
There must be presents for all.
I crawl to the mall,
avoiding any Blessed Undertow.
I go shopping.
Inert, uninspired,
dull, dim-witted,
I languish inside my
cobwebbed, rusty armor,
my brain a dried pea
rolling around in my skull.
I’m either waiting to die.
…or perhaps already dead.
But we need new
lamps for the bedroom.
So I shuffle and creak
to Lamp-R-Us.
I go shopping.
Life whispers to me: What you need is:
beauty, refreshment, color, creativity,
all manner of ravishment for the senses.
So why is it the acquisition of
faux-suede purple pillows,
lamps that glow from within,
a strand of glittering beads,
a bag of fresh oranges,
a bunch of star-gazer lilies,
a tin of 70%-pure chocolate candies
has such a short shelf-life,
soon leaving me in need again?
Look inward, shopper…
A poem knocks faintly at my door,
but I’m not there to hear it.
A little creative make-thing
peeks in my window
looking for me,
but I’m too tired,
too busy, to see it.
A continual parade of
one-time-only possibilities
arrive on my doorstep.
all dolled up just for me in
get-ups of diamonds, chicken wire,
broken mirrors, flannel, jelly beans,
sack cloth, Silly Putty, lace,
bunting or alligator shoes—
with live alligators.
Such a rich inner world of
beauty and creativity
is mine to mine.
But I’ll never find
what I truly need
if I’m not home
when it finds me.
January, 2006
