“I no longer know where you are,
and I walk on and wonder where,
the living goes
when it stops.” – Charles Bukowski, “Layover”

Turning inward I find a child
starved and pleading
“Let me out!”
but I hold it down and bind its mouth.
I can’t hear over the sounds
and there is so much I have to listen to
to stay afloat
and you, child in me, are just weight.
Leave me and go so far
I no longer know where you are.

Somedays though
I feel I’ve heard enough.
The cacophony has caught me
jabbing stationary in my ears.
This might be a good time
to find that kid.
Let him play for awhile
because it sucks out here,
but he’s gone
and I walk on and wonder where.

I’m trying to paint this landscape
and they’re telling me how,
but the landscape keeps changing
before I can even raise my brush,
And this kid comes up
Kicks me in the ankles
and says, “What the hell are you doing?
Paint your own thing, you’re fucking this up!”
I kick him back and tell him that’s just how
the living goes.

This is how we spend most our time,
two parts of a broken lock,
meant for a purpose we can never serve alone,
but together, only binding.
And though I hate him,
but because I love him,
I tell him we are almost done;
and he says he doesn’t care,
“Just tell me
when it stops.”