December Second, Nineteen-Ninety-Something 

Week-ending,
bone-tired,
brain-sore,
multiple hour week,
rendering my thoughts,
bloodying the page,
coagulated efforts,
transcribed in mud,
fingers seizing up,
strained, fatigued,
head full to the top,
eardrums missing the beat
until the doorbell rings.

The tree arrives,
shouldered by a strong,
competent woodsman,
 so said the Yellow Pages,
delivering as promised,
 a beauty, in and of itself,
without decoration,
standing on its own, fir
falling out into the room,
exactly where he left it,
exploding in pine scent,
as the door hits his ass,
on his return to the woods.
 

I don’t recall ordering up
this full frontal ache,
the renewed desire,
once sought after dreams
of what it must be like
to turn, turn, turn
towards someone special
at the end of a wintery day,
eyes blurred, mind shutting down,
ears having heard enough,
mouth paused, a sigh escaping
in the shape of your name,
if only I knew who you were.
 

Hard-pressed,
I force the words out;
it could be longing
if I must choose a feeling,
put a finger to heart’s desire,
measuring for a form-fit,
eyes that meet halfway,
lips to match thoughts,
without speaking,
arms through arms
and leg woven to leg,
keeping everything good in
while the bad stuff strays. 

Turn, turning into, against,
 around and through,
nearer to me than thee,
another person, fresh blood,
the Mr. Right for Mrs. Me,
our day complete,
completeness;
can this be
a forgotten memory?
a lost dream?
a still deep desire?
or just another cold
December night? 

This poem breaks all kinds of rules, none of which I can name .... gleaned from works in progress which I have filed as "notes saved in a blue basket" or perhaps they could be titled Going to Hell in a Handy Holiday Basket