Ordinary people

I still don't know
who you are or if you are
something aching between
9-5 as you bite your lips
waiting for the same insane bus.

We both are too old
to evolve and turn into butterflies:
our hands and stains would denounce
our lack of perception and sensory awareness.

Simple things don't electrify us
anymore; we are too busy paying bills,
counting the money we don't have,
riding other paranoias.
We are strange beings.

I can't find where your old poetic notebooks
are hidden. You used to like rhymed poetry,
high heel shoes and make up.
We are on the periphery of ourselves,
resigned to what I dare not to say
because it hurts so much to be less
than we once were.

I have been thinking
we are nature's mistakes,
maybe we are like two dizzy moons,
failing to distinguish the east from the west.
Our apparent motion knows no apogee or perigee.
What have we become after all these years?
Just wax figures in sealed honeycomb
with a thin layer of hope, my friend?

We used to burst through a D major.
It is sad to see our tight strings out of tune.
I feel for us.
Who stole our voices and small miracles?
When did we start to stare at our own photos for hours?

Karla Bardanza

For Katia

http://karlabardanzapoems.blogspot.com
http://skycladatmidnight.tumblr.com
http://poeticpostcards.blogspot.com

Poem #8
*Written for the Raven's "one a day" through November.