The Desk:
Placid
The Pen:
Untouched
The Paper:
A Blank White Snow Storm
The Man of Too Many Words
Rooted to the chair
Feet swallowed by carpet
Hands paused
Above placid untouched snowstorms
Cotton in his mouth
Vocal chords unfretted
Unplucked
He had nothing to say.
It was Tuesday.
The oceans of emotions
birthed too many waves
Too many currents
Sometimes he spoke too much
Constructed vocabulary of full moons
Deciphered heartbeats with language
Worried over silence
Simply
He feared to be misunderstood
Simply
He feared in the silence
An invisible landscape of houses
Where red doors slammed against his eyes
Where shuttered windows wore iron hasps.
He feared her delicate hand turning rigid
The soft caress articulated with springs and pistons
Suddenly catapulting him from the edge of his safety
Simply
He misunderstood the power
and literacy of his rough hands.
Simply
He underestimated the clear speech of his sea colored eyes
Simply
He underestimated the ability of others to love him
Simply
It was more simple
Simply he sat at the desk with no alphabet
He could no longer write poems about her eyes
They were too deep
Too fathomless
Too complexly simple
Too huge in there smallness
To be stuffed inside shallow, awkward containers
of phonetic discrimination.
Simply he dropped pen
in simple round basket
Simply pulled away from the placid desk
Simply lit a ream of paper
in the daffodil yard
and waved a burning surrender flag
He washed the dishes in silence
He put away her water glass
and drank the rest of the chocolate soy milk.
He shuffled from to room
Saying nothing.
He made the bed
and counted the eyelashes
She left on the pillow.
