Sick Day

I’m taking the day off

to mourn my life

 

which is not something

I can do at work

 

surrounded by computers

and codes.

 

Grief and regret – that one

we’re implored to deny –

 

can’t be codified.

They can be washed in tears

 

or taken for a walk

to the park, in the rain.

 

Or written down and out

in the hope of freedom

 

or better yet, redemption.

They can’t be summarized

 

into a memo to a choice few,

and copied to a few more.

 

Written quickly

and typed from memory,

 

that memo would be

an embarrassment

 

to the Professionals.

They would think, well,

 

she’s really lost it now,

telling us this. All the while

 

keeping back their own tears

welling up inside.

 

The Color of Wind

The end of his fingertips are pressed tightly against his eyelids,

praying for a color, a pink, a deep blue –

 

he knows nothing of pink or deep blue.

He knows the smell of watermelon

 

on a hot, humid day.

A seed gets spit onto a paper plate.

 

He knows the feel of seersucker against his legs –

that soft, corrugated cotton

 

moving with the breeze.

A bell rings on a quiet porch.

 

The wind blows an easy hello while he

makes his way through the living room.

 

Sitting on a chair in the shade

he listens to the bell chime

 

for his sound heart

and his telling tongue.

 

The wind greets him across the morning

through the wildflower fields

 

filled with the deep reds of poppies

the purple of flowering salvia.

 

Review of a Lifetime

There are angels in this city

with cameras slung round their necks.

 

Disguised as tourists, they take pictures

of us. Documenting our time on Earth.

 

Did you give the bum

a quarter or a smoke?

 

Did you cross at the light

or run when you could?

 

Did you smile at the stranger

as she snapped your photo

 

taking it to God for the review

of your life?

 

There are angels in this city

on the sidewalks, in the streets.

 

They are the cabdrivers, the waitresses,

the docents at the museum.

 

They are the clerks at Duane Reade

and the millionaires in their town cars.

 

They are the journalists of heaven

under the cover of humanity

 

watching over and watching us,

making sure we keep the pact

 

made at birth.

The deal of innocence

 

played out over a lifetime,

a wingspan, encompassing

 

all the hours

from birth to death.

 
Nickie Albert

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