My Three-Poems-In-An-Hour Saga

These are three poems I wrote in a row on my way home from work. It's weird because it kind of shows you a typical Corissa thought process (not that I think in poems. Ok sometimes I do). Anyway, enjoy:

Days like these
seem so absurd,
when I can see
my reflection
and the bridge,
looking down
at a water drop
that landed
in my shoe.
When everything
in the water
seems infinite
because there is
no beginning
and there is
no end.

They call you,
claim you to be,
the alpha and omega,
and god how sometimes
I wish you existed.
How selfish.
More selfish still
how I wish that
I existed,
infinite as the ripples
and waves in the water,
infinite as the reflection
in my shoe.

Everything really is nothing
when you live a hundred years,
at best.
And god how I wish
it meant so much more.
And god at the very same time,
and in the very same breath,
it all still means
much too much.
Is this what it means
to be human?
The constant conflict
between being far too little
and far too much.

But 'little' and 'much',
what do these words even mean?
In the very act of using words
they seem to lose meaning
just as in the act of living
life itself seems to become
not-worth-living.
Can one speak
without speaking
or live
without living?
Can one dream
without dreaming?

Even if it were possible,
what would it mean?
Who knows?
At the end of the day,
these things
are all
I have.
And after all,
these are just words
of a poem
written one August day
at a bus stop,
and today
it means far too little.

----------

Today, on the bus,
I want to read my poem,
to stand up and recite it all
just to see
how the world might react.

I'm looking at people,
choosing the ones
I think might get it,
or the ones I think
need to hear it.
Is that arrogant?

You I want to read my poem
because you spent
too much time
on your make-up this morning,
and you I want to read my poem
because you are staring at me,
cupping your face with one hand.

You I want to read my poem
because you have a tacky tattoo
of a Chinese character,
and it probably says 'rice'.
You, well I want you to ask
to read my poem,
because I think
we could be friends.

Among the smiles,
quizzical glances,
and curious stares,
I wonder if anyone
will ask me
what I'm writing.
I wonder if I'll
be brave enough to say,
I'm writing about
you.

I wonder if
they'll ask me
why there's a paperclip
in my hair
where a bobby pin
rightfully belongs,
or why there's a scratch
on my arm,
and I wonder if
it even makes any difference.

I suppose what all
my wonderings mean
is that I want my voice
to be heard,
challenging the world
and its trivial complexities.

So I guess I write poetry.

----------

I saw the same man twice today,
and though I only saw his back,
I knew it was him
because of the way he whistled.

I heard him on my way
to the bus stop,
stopped dead in my tracks, thinking,
'that is an impressive whistle',
turned and watched him,
black t-shirt and jeans,
walking from his car to his house.
I smiled at the eccentricity,
paused, and walked on.

On my way back
from the bus stop,
seven cigarettes
and seven hours later,
who should I hear
from a block away
but the very same man,
black t-shirt and jeans,
walking from his car to house,
whistling.

This time he whistled
something of a different tune.
Stopped dead in my tracks again,
I paused.
Rather than smiling
at the eccentricity,
I wanted to know
why he was whistling,
what he was going home to,
what his idea of success was
at the end of the day,
and whether or not he fit
into his own definition.

I wondered,
if I knew the reason,
would it be something
I could appreciate?
Would it be something
that could make me
want to whistle?
I wondered if the reason
would make me scoff,
wondered if I was better off
not knowing,
then finally wondered
why I was wondering
at all.