What do you want to do?
I know they mean a specific job
but ultimately I want to be:
the kindness others think is gone,
have a moment of bliss, pure ecstasy,
to be spontaneous, trips to anywhere and everywhere.
What do I want to do with my life?
I want to help the lives of others,
I want to walk a mile
in the shoes of someone who doesn't have any,
too find homes for animals,
protect the wildlife,
to stand for something.
What do I want to do?
I want to see the wonders of the world,
capture images others won't see,
to design my house.
When I am asked
I shrug my shoulders.
"You have some time to figure it out"
is all they say in return.
As if a job is all that matters,
a job is the meaning of life.
I believe being alive is the meaning,
the meaning of life.
When I Am Asked
When I am asked
how I began writing poems,
I talk about the indifference of nature.
It was soon after my mother died,
a brilliant June day,
everything blooming.
I sat on a gray stone bench
in a lovingly planted garden,
but the day lilies were as deaf
as the ears of drunken sleepers
and the roses curved inward.
Nothing was black or broken
and not a leaf fell
and the sun blared endless commercials
for summer holidays.
I sat on a gray stone bench
ringed with the ingenue faces
of pink and white impatiens
and placed my grief
in the mouth of language,
the only thing that would grieve with me.
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