I WANT TO KNOW

your private moments
filled with nothing;
those times
when you are not thinking
at all,
when a hush hugs your brain,
when those mad wires
of misinformation are stilled
by natural rhythms;
when all we were
and all we are
and all we might be
calmly play
without importance
like a Beatle's lyric
out of Rubber Soul,
perhaps...
You might be moved
to treat yourself kindly,
to hold hands
with yourself
without begging
or bargaining.
You might arrive
on a hot chocolate morning
carrying yesterday's news
like marshmellows to dunk
and nibble on:
a colony of ants looking
for a new home,
Hannibal crossing 14th Street,
a tulip descending
upon a suitor's lips,
a tremble in the cleft
of a mountain;
maybe you've turned
the electronic hum
into a sleeping beast
or decided your first lover
was your best lover.
But nothing
is held
for very long
or seen for simply
being part of the tale.
We are simple stories
being told
to ourselves.
Each day
a different begining
and a different end.
With any luck,
if luck is anything at all,
we will find out
what we are
tomorrow.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2018

ADDICTION

The Betty Poems

I know that feeling well:
you can't wait
to be alone
inside a room,
a stall,
a hallway,
where no one
can see you,
find you,
talk to you,
confront you,
pressure you,
upset you,
deconstruct you,
unmask you,
torture you,
demand of you,
finger you,
command you,
annoy you,
remind you,
deny you,
kill you,
love you,
acknowledge you,
praise you,
cherish you,
worship you,
adore you,
look at you,
measure you,
accept you,
cheat on you,
misplace you,
lean on you...
and just sip
from the lip
or inject a tip
of a bottle
or a syringe
of mother's milk
into your mouth
or vein
that soothes
the creases
in your soul.
It's like walking
into a Chinese laundry
on a blue winter's day,
and the steam heat
embraces you as does
the old familiar Chinese couple
behind the counter
for a hundred years,
and you know
their love
has its own rhythm and
you'd love to have
that rhythm
but you don't;
and then
you smell the steam
from the old irons
held in their beautiful crooked hands
swollen with arthritic pain
as you drop off your stains
knowing they will come back
pressed out and you can once again
be clean and fresh.

Be sure
not to lose
your ticket.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2013