Normality
A poem focusing on why he does what he does.
My life is measured in the picket fences, slightly yellowed from time,
Old oaks with rope burns from holding tire swings,
Rusted cars sat in the yard with tall grass tickling the underbelly,
Shutters hanging by one hinge, knocking in the wind,
Small dogs peeking from behind curtains, bouncing as they bark.
My heart beats because of little hands pushing treats into baskets, hoping their mischief goes unnoticed,
The broken pedestrian signal on Fifth Avenue, diligent in its skewed course,
Muttered curses after grabbing the only broken shopping cart,
Hotel signs lighting up forested highways.
I breathe for the sound of shifting clothes on hangers in resale shops,
Stale pies in bakery windows,
The sudden flush of public toilets,
Police in rear view mirrors,
The Static between radio stations,
Warm laundry pulled from the dryer,
Vitamins stuck at the bottom of the bottle,
The mailman’s knock on the door,
Documenteries on hotel TVs,
The other side of the pillow.