Behind, #192

Behind in payments
so bill collectors
send more mail,
get colorful,
mark envelopes
with warnings,
trade slogans
of great service
and people first
for threats
of lawyers and debt
permanent credit damage,
promise all
can be forgiven
with a quick call
and a payment.

Behind every good
man is a shadow
cast by the light,
a cold countenance
that betrays
no truth, none
of the voices
rolling around
his head, poking
out to pick apart
every kind thought,
each enlightened
and educated
philosophy, drained
into the glass
to cut the acidity.

Behind the door
of the closet
in the hallway
hides a boy.
Stuffed amongst
the coats, who
needs to pee,
always when playing
hide and go seek.
He counts backwards.
Tried to find
the time, listen
for people moving.
Always, he comes out
too quick. Caught
on his running.

In traffic, caught
behind a slow moving
twenty year old
American car,
the back left bumper
dented in such a way
and in conjunction
with the streaks
of paint across
the rear quarter
as to leave you
with nothing to do
but imagine what
accident left
this behemoth
so crippled.

All I do
these days
is work to get
even, and then
while breathing
find I have slipped
and fell behind
again. Tomorrow
I will work harder.
Tomorrow and tomorrow
and tomorrow.
One day I was even
a bit ahead.
But quick did
it dissipate
back on me.

Bee-hind, the rear
quarter of a bee,
the part with
the stinger
that always
gets me.
A pun I know,
but my job
is to reach out.
How else can
I get you to laugh
and by laughing
to love me?
I haven’t hid
much more, kept
for you to see.

When she walked away
the best of her
features reared
its lovely image.
Round and supple
and swung side
to side, a wee
hiccup in the switch
from left to right.
So neanderthal
that I should be moved
to shivering
by this image.
Not anything she
can control or shape.
Nothing of what she be.

There are places
to be, people to do,
things to see.
No, wait. I can’t
ever seem to
get that straight.
Great. Let’s try
again. Sorry,
must run now.
There are places
to do, things
to go, people
to see. Would
somebody please,
put me out of
my own misery?

Behind the eightball,
a phrase, meant
to portray
someone stuck
in a awful way.
Meaning, that even
at the end, you can’t
seem to win the game.
Such phrases we take
from our play,
apply to everyday
every day, as if
the only metaphors
we steal are from
what is fun, cheap
and measurable.

Behind a waterfall
one can look out
and through the drops
of thunderous storms
see the shimmering
of bodies who
climb the rocks,
the hazy features
of shapes and forms
and think that this
must have been
how life was lived
before we laid stakes
and pitched our cities.
These slippery scum
where life was formed.

A shadow chases
behind me, chases
me out of the house
and down the walk
and out to the car,
where it disappears.
A shadow steps out
in the parking lot
at work and follows
me all the way
to the mall,
but won’t come in.
Shadow, which only
loves me in sunlight
or moonlight. Natural
angry demon.

In moving forward
one must wonder
what we’ve left
behind.
What old friends
and old rusted
out cars, and
family.
With the change
of address, country
and climate, who
misses me,
and why must one
be haunted by
everywhere you’ve
ever been?

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A day is not done, until it's filled with words.

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