Each time, it seems, though maybe not exactly, well I’m not
sure
I get sad or depressed or maudlin or wondering about Life’s big questions
You know the “Why am I here?” or “Why the hell did I make this choice or that?”
Or “What contribution am I supposed to make to my planet?
It seems I am stuck on dead ends in the road, the blocked forks left by certain people
He who looked so much like my dad, was frightfully honest and left a huge deposit in my lap.
She who never answered my letter, who I make up is forever angry at the pubescent me.
He who, I imagine, died in the earlyish days of the AIDS epidemic, but I’m still not convinced.
In those sad moments the paper punch leaves holes shaped like these people’s bodies
Pressed into question marks like a strange version of the Village people it seems,
Posing and singing “YMCA” only my people’s letters spell “You’ll never know.”
Each and all are smirking. Fifth grade chorus teacher I loved but the school didn’t.
Quiet, glasses wearing Dolphin. Smart. Detached. Gone. Golder retriever owner.
Miss Foley turned Mrs. Downing turned to Garden State Parkway or Mass Turnpike
Or is she walking slow down the avenue in my old neighborhood?
Each time,
it seems,
though maybe not exactly,
well I’m not sure.
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