Where crybabies cry in the United States
Bright white on both sides like a plate
Nobody listens, nobody should

“Theory of the Crows,” The National

there’s no room
for crying

when the ghost returns
in full relief

full throated and full bodied
haunting and pleasant

like timeless astronauts
free floating

weightless and ahistorical
soundless and untethered

in space there’s no room
for apologies

when the ghost returns
like a shooting star

but a space suit’ll do for now
an impromptu crying room

where no one can hear the crumbling
these missing monuments

because no one said the amputations
were temporary or free

—P.L. Thomas

See Also

afraid of ghost (v.)

I don’t wanna talk/Because I don’t wanna fight

“Hornets,” The National

sometimes we must
tiptoe through the garden

carefulness is an act
of love and desire

don’t crush the tomatoes
or the melon vines

blossoms sprouts and dandelions
beckon into the blue sky

because we are bound by
the ethics of tiptoeing

•

i scroll through dozens
of pictures on my phone

searching for ones when
i see you in love with me

i lose track of time
looking again for you and us

can you tiptoe through pictures?
do they freeze time and love?

•

i am being so careful
that i may pass out

holding my breath as i tiptoe
looking for your love

in the labyrinth of pictures
held sacred on a cell phone

maybe we all deserve better
maybe we all should be more careful

•

this fragile carbon fiber love
apologizing for catastrophic failures

just being human and beautiful
like a garden trampled by startled deer

because we are bound by
the ethics of tiptoeing

or at least we should be
this fragile carbon fiber love

•

let’s drive away together
until we arrive at us again

will you walk through the marsh
with me there tiptoeing?

i promise that i will
take plenty of pictures

—P.L. Thomas

—

Friendships are melting, nothing is helping

“Coat on a Hook,” The National

i want to hold you
in my mouth

like a watermelon Jolly Rancher

but only if
it lasts forever

there on my tongue

i can’t pick flowers
i can’t pick apples
i let tomatoes whither on the vine

but i pick you
i pick always you

—P.L. Thomas

we love the running water

but not the erosion

that’s it

—P.L. Thomas

of under me you so quite new

e.e. cummings, [i like my body when it is with your]

It’s a calculation I made a mistake on
I never should have said it like I said

“Space Invader,” The National

i. these unspokens (innocent taboos)

selected poems by e.e. cummings
a carefully placed bookmark

this first gift to you

these unspokens
innocent taboos

hands joined under tables
knees touching and held there

longings kept out of view

these unspokens
innocent taboos

night incantations conjuring
the impossible possible

lover’s prayers

these unspokens
innocent taboos

parking lots and parked cars
secret sanctuaries

chasing possible

these unspokens
innocent taboos

now spoken and acted
let’s hold on to these

against the squandering

ii. the edge

we visited the edge
didn’t we

i never wanted
that trip

but you needed it
i think

i never wanted to gaze
into that abyss

so i was relieved when
we turned

around hand in hand
to return

our place together
solid ground

the meteors found us
i said

the rainbows helped them
you smiled

—P.L. Thomas

I do my crying underwater

“Demons,” The National

he met a sad woman

she was often incredibly sweet
and she was always
disorientingly beautiful
and disarmingly smart

but also always very very sad

and from time to time
when he looked at her
he couldn’t disentangle
the sad from the beautiful

so he had to find places
to cry hard and silently
until the ache at the center
of him settled into something gentle

like tossing a ball
over and over
to an overeager puppy
in a mulch-filled dog park

—P.L. Thomas

i am riding tedious laps
around the park
on my bicycle
 
thinking casually
about Albert Camus
and “The Myth of Sisyphus”
 
until i see a fork in the road
a filthy plastic fork
just lying on the asphalt
 
then i think about Robert Frost
and “The Road Not Taken”
i hate that poem and Frost
 
but i genuinely loathe
the inspirational posters
urging us to make the right choice
 
on the third lap i stop
pick up the plastic fork
slip it into my jersey pocket
 
a couple days later
i pull my jersey from the wash
finding the plastic fork
 
i hang up the kits to dry
throw the fork in the trash
guessing it made a bit of difference
 
a fork in the road
a filthy plastic fork
just lying on the asphalt
 
—P.L. Thomas