Slick

The smell of pavement dripping after rain,
Cut with a little oil in the air,
Brings me back to youth. I feel the drain
Of fifteen years dropping into nowhere,
And I am playing by the street again,
At the old house, with the shorter fence,
Laughing with my friends. A young me, then,
Only half-grown in both body and sense,
Would chase balls to the street and dodge the cars.
The smell returns me, but I cannot play
As once I did; maturity disbars
Such folly, and it's better in a way:
I'm safer now. But oh, the fun we had
Even if the things we did were bad.

To Do List

There isn't much I want to do with you
Except the thousand things that we have done
Again. That's really all I want to do,
Although in new, exciting ways. It's fun
To do things with you, and what we've begun
I always like to finish, then repeat.
You know I'm not like this with everyone,
But something in you is so deeply sweet,
So necessary to make me complete,
That doing what we've done again is good,
Because it means we once again can meet
And join together, doing what we would:
It's not so much the details of what we
Do, as the fact that it is you and me.

Ouch

It really sucks to feel my head in pain
And not know what to do - to want to lie
Low in the dark, listening to rain
And hearing windnotes whistling me by,
But know I must remain awake. I am
Tired to weariness, but cannot tell
The reason for it. So instead I damn
My forehead and its painfulness to hell,
And wish I were asleep when I am not.
It's not a pleasant or an easy way
To be - but now, alas, it's all I've got,
And feels like it is all I'll be today.
Someday I hope I will feel better - then
Perhaps I'll be more purposeful again.

Up Up

The calm of morning is a pseudo-rest,
A feigning pause within the storm of day.
It has the normal giddiness, but dressed
In mirror-coats, to shine the stress away.
Only because the tired, half-awake
Problems of the day are coffeeless
Can morning any seeming headway make
Against the cares that so painfully press
On other hours. Day has not yet risen
To its full height, and so neither has worry:
Yet it is not that trouble is in prison,
But rather that its normal desperate hurry
Is half-allayed by being sleepy-headed:
But so are we, so it must still be dreaded.

Common Theme

Patience is a necessary thing
In very short supply, sometimes, with me.
I do not like to simply wait and see,
Or pause for breath. I find such pauses bring
Only frustration, and I firmly cling
To my belief that patience ought to be
Less necessary. I disdain to be
Staring at life, waiting for its ping.
And yet her absence makes me droop and wait:
I cannot hurry it, although I would,
Although I'm certain it would do me good
To see her now, not have to hesitate.
But I cannot, and so patience must come
I really hope somewhere that I have some.

Is Coming

There are days that beat you black and blue,
Spin you around, then kick you in the knee,
Slam you to the ground with awful glee:
Those days are bad. But when they bring their crew,
And all of them do just the same to you
For weeks on end, you can no longer see
A point of rest or calm, but hopelessly
Keep on attempting to pretend you do.
This is Chicago winter, deep and harsh,
Unwilling to allow for human pain,
Turning the Midway to a soggy marsh,
Covered by the snow and freezing rain,
While we all wonder with increased vexation
Who thought this city fit for habitation?

Temperate

A hot November is a quite strange thing,
A false reminder of the warmer days
Implanted with the memory of spring,
Untinged by winter's fast approaching grays.
Summers are used to leaving in a blaze,
But what replaces them? Autumns can be
As warm as summer in its golden haze:
Where should the line be drawn when, quietly,
The heat refuses to depart? When we
Speak of the fall, we have some expectations,
Which, still unmet, can leave us out at sea.
The seasons are not merely our creations,
Yet sometimes seem so: still, a hot November
Seems an omen for a bad December.

Bargain

Yet who, when dealing with immortal God
Thinks merely of a bargain? True indeed,
The promise of a good the Lord will heed,
And also often the avenging rod
Scourges the sinner, as was promised us.
Yet mercy can wipe out outstanding debt
And God by massive mercy can still let
Grace pass beyond the bargain. Who can truss
God to mere justice? What is owed can be
Let pass, if creditors agree thereto:
And death for sin, accounted properly,
Is not a wage forever falling due
But penalty for bonds we broke - and so
God in his grace could let that duty go.

Faustus

Sin's wages must be death, and they are paid
In total justice and complete desert,
Fully and well, for sinful creatures die.
Yet so does virtue, and the virtuous
Beside their sinful brethren must be laid,
Their lives as painful, terminally curt,
And therefore over. If we should ask why,
What answer can be ever made to us
But "all have sinned"? Yet when that has been said,
The question lingers: "And if God is great,
Why are the good and evil just as dead?
What is the purpose of this common fate?"
But virtue in its heart knows its reward
Is that content it will itself afford.

Silvius

Sometimes I tell you unimportant things
Just to hear the tickle in your voice,
See how amusement in your body sings,
And feel you smile. I despise James Joyce,
And yet I would, if only for your sake,
Listen, if you had reason to desire,
To someone read his whole Finnegan's Wake
Or all Ulysses, though I think it dire.
In short, you may command, always, from me
No matter what the purpose or the reason,
Great heaps of willing, fond absurdity
In every situation, place, and season.
Some I'll invent, and others I'll endure,
But in them all, I am your servant sure.