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Cover:
‘Lots of Galaxies’ by JanK
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Where I Am
I can only pluck.
What I can see.
With some luck.
I do the best I can.
This is where they put me.
So this is where I am.
You’ve been in middle management
for quite a while now.
Why haven’t you moved up?
This is where they put me.
So this is where I am.
What about that book?
Remember that book you
dreamed of writing.
Have you been working on that?
This is where they put me.
So this is where I am.
One of billions existing.
On this planet.
In this solar system.
Next to a star.
Just the right distance.
A minuscule speck.
In your galaxy.
One of a hundred billion.
Galaxies.
With your evolved brain.
Your frontal lobe
and consciousness.
What do you do for meaning?
I can only pluck.
What I can see.
With some luck.
I do the best I can.
This is where they put me.
So this is where I am.
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Finally Get Back
Ratcheting a reprieve.
And when I finally
get back to me.
I must leave.
The time left for me.
Is torn and ticketed.
But, every so often.
I can grasp a serendipitous slip.
Permission, the confluence
of circumstance has carved.
I get to brush away.
Some of the everyday debris
in my path. A stop to start who I
will be. A glistening clear moment.
And then I’m transported back.
Reality has the power to do that.
Place you back.
Liberal democracy stands the tallest.
among the rouge few.
We see and have seen the
devastation of the others.
When you reach a certain age.
You are thrown in and shackled.
To, responsibility, obligation.
Economic survival.
Racketing a reprieve.
And when, I finally
get back to me.
I must leave.
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Everybody Looks Like Somebody
Everybody looks
like somebody.
Everyone looks
important.
They seem to
have a purpose.
With each step.
My life is like. A circus.
I have to focus.
But I forget.
A crisp crease in their slacks.
And a shine coming from
expensive shoes.
Coifed hair, perfectly cut.
Bending slightly with the
ambitious ambulating.
A phone to the ear.
An important call.
Strides of military precision.
A perfect pace for the race.
They seem to sail down the avenue.
And look at me.
Sitting here watching
the procession on my lunch break.
I have mismatched socks.
One blue and one brown.
I don’t think anyone will notice.
My job doesn’t require a presentation.
I’m a little rumpled.
I work in the back.
The necessary work
of the common person.
Everybody looks
like somebody.
Everyone looks
important.
They seem to
have a purpose
with each step.
My life is like a circus.
I need to focus.
But I forget.
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Michael Terence O'Brien © 2023
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Michael Terence O'Brien is a poet, playwright, artist, and a singer/songwriter who resides in Chesterfield N.J. He currently works as a special education teacher and instructs students with autistic spectrum disorder.