delivery trucks
those ubiquitous messengers on wheels
also known as santa claus
or carrier pigeon
or marathon man
come & go but mostly go
to anyplace but your own
and there you are
in your self-imposed exile
seeking wisdom but gaining frustration
with every step van
or box truck
or pizza delivery driver
passing you by
december two thousand twenty-one
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
it was the dead of winter
and those flowers we once shared
bloomed in the back of my mind
I’ve kept anything but busy
self-isolated in my mystery cottage
placed perfectly atop cedar hill
unable to set foot outside
for fear of freezing to death
days turned into nights
nights well lit by candlelight
open books scattered throughout
sonnets recited by dead poets
their voices reverberating
as shadows against the walls
early morning birdsong
slipped past single-pane windows
like a long lost lullaby
putting out the very last flame
and folding fast my tired eyes
december two thousand twenty
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
it doesn’t matter what you think
just like it matters not which way I turn
just as long as the confluence of influence
doesn’t intersect anywhere near
this dusty highway bridge
this way leads to my island
shared by a selective group of misfits
who understand on a higher level
what it’s like to thrive off the beaten path
and stay happily and simply hidden
march two thousand fourteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
there is no going back
I think to myself
sitting alone and staring out the bay window
as if I was under house arrest
outside it is very white
and very cold
and I would do anything to see
someone walk by with their dog
but it is too cold for that
it is too cold for even the mailman
to swing by I suppose
I meander to the back window and look
outside for signs of life
I squint at all the undressed trees
sticking out of the blinding white ground
show me a juvenile cardinal I say to myself
but there are no juvenile cardinals
to be found
I go into the kitchen and sit at the counter
open a can of nuts I had stashed
away months ago
muttering to myself
there is no going back
february two thousand fourteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
jdubqca 