I’ve been telling the police
That I don’t know where I am.
When really, I do.
I admit that I recognize this scenery;
I mean, I’ve lived in this house for three years.
Don’t have to look at a street sign when I drive to work,
And the guys at the smokeshop know me by name.
Something perplexes me when I study my hands.
I looked up a chart once and found
my lines say I die at 30.
But at 28, I can’t grasp this life’s story.
Never left on a journey
Nor abetted a cause.
Can’t say I’ve written enough.
And while I’ve tried to nurture love
We have yet to name a son.
They say that your destiny is clay in your hands.
That it don’t matter what your lines portend-
Given that you’re willing to take.
Sometimes I feel like a dog chasing cars;
Always forgetting the plot.
Or a man teaching anthropology
While at home he collects rocks.
Sometimes I feel like a mute with one hand.
With nothing to say,
But fingers heavy in statements
If those digits could sing
They might complain,
“We are here! We are here!”
While the ghost passed me by
Might I convince him to wait there
Where I am.
While I hesitate in the doorway.
Like I told the employee with a gun:
I don’t know where I am.
But I have two hands and a dog bone
And my favorite smoke shop opens early on Sundays
From the Author
This is a poem about lines, divination, and that uncomfortable feeling you get every time someone asks you what you want to be when you grow up…
As you may have noticed, I recorded a recitation with this work. Please be kind, as I’m not the perfect orator, nor do I have the perfect equipment for the task. Let me know in the comments if you liked the narration, or if you had trouble with the audio in any way!
Thank you for reading and listening!