gravity

What is it that propels me, throws me, pulls me?

I fear it’s me

Where can I go to escape the expectations

Bent over the hood of my red rental.

Birds talking, chasing, eating.

Sun shining.

Still cool.

I contemplate

Still no answers.

I’m not sure what I expect.

A change of scenery.

A revelation?

“Is there a way to get out of here?”

I’m rudely ripped from my reveries

A cowboy

A biker

Who knows?

Jeans and a black tee.

“I don’t know. I just got here too.”

He walks away.

Maybe a margarita will contain an answer.

If not, at least I can sip and lick some respite.

Be released, if even for a moment. Left to swirl out of control, out of its grasp.

And to melt, meld, blend.

Is this what I want?

I walk away too.

a little note

I wrote this poem May 19, 2007 in a parking lot in Santa Fe, NM off Old Route 66. I was in nearby Albuquerque on business, covering the International Science and Engineering Fair. I took a week off, I think, maybe just a few days that felt like a week, to drive up to Santa Fe, to take in the Georgia O’Keefe Museum and unwind. I don’t think I was prepared for the intense uteral representations I was about to immerse myself in. I was more than a year into fertility treatments at that point and really sad—about that aspect of my life.