Clock

Tick, like the opening of a box
of secrets, like a small blood
sucker, you stand just inside the
room, and suddenly you are
faced with your finitude, and time,
like a thief, seems to be running
out, and you head for the heart of
the clock, climb in carefully, and
close its all-seeing face, with a soft tock.

Suicide

I have friends who committed suicide.
I am not visited by their ghosts
unless you count the black spot
on my buoyancy. I am not sure that
the world needs them, or, now, me.
This is religion. Once, I loved someone
and they left for no reason. I said I
wanted to die but I didn’t. I only
wanted to say it. I guess, thinking back,
there was a reason she left me. And
that my friends committed suicide. I
wonder how big that reason was. I wonder
if I’ve ever reached that same place and
survived. I wish I knew. I wish I could
ask them, especially Jennifer. She seemed
to have everything. Like me, dear God, like me.

Return to Wendy Ward

I went to her door a stranger.
Her mother said she was
doing homework. Who shall
I say is here? she rightly asked.
She doesn’t know me, I said.
Her mother hesitated and then
went upstairs. Soon she came
down. She was even prettier
close up. I was a bold marauder.
She could not imagine
my passion or gall. Reader, she
agreed to a date. Later, it would
turn out I wasn’t what she wanted.
Later, I would go mad for the
first time. But, listen. Picture me
on that doorstep. I am about to
knock. Freeze that moment. I am
one cool cat. I am about to
become lost for a long, long time.