Poems by Timothy Pilgrim

A FORM OF REMORSE 

It feels much like a noose, anyway —
sleep, troubled, the Earth’s lithe back
turned, Peneloped, to me. Unraveled,
nature long ground down, us, all quite okay

with waste, ruin, decay. I drift to sleep,
from elfin scaffold see what will be —
tiny house, windows closed,
no water for micro-lawn, trifling vines,

mini-garden, grape tomatoes,
baby peas. Dwarf shadows fall
from Bonsai trees. It’s now a given,
rusted Lexus, thawed tundra, empty dam.

Rotted mansion, guesthouse,
yacht. Cruise ship north, watch
glaciers calve, melt to zip,
nada — no reprieve, any chance

for petite demise, gone. Only hope,
a rope too long, last words,
the entire Odyssey, in Greek.
I’ll speak them hanging, upside-down.


LATTE LIFE

Gnats, a churning cloud, swirl past
my drive-thru pane. They dance,
whirl, flit en mass, puree still air
in growing damp. I fake-smile
at ordering pricks, stir, mix,
liquify. Sun fades to gray,
wipes the entire swirl away.
I clock out, flip off night,
blunge myself a crap latte.
In the end, I slog home alone —
blackness pours in again.


CHOOSING SECOND PERSON

If you could re-live life,
it would look like this —

lurk shadowed outside,
peer in, study yourself.

Wish for no more snow,
a bit of warmth, enough time

to wonder if you could stand
being in there with you.