Slipping On Algae

It’s all moving too fast.
This single bleed.
The beans on the pot.
The cops across the street with pens in their hands
and guns tucked away.
There are too many questions
I can not answer.
Clouds
and pictures
and worries.
I sit
frozen
scared to move to the right
or to the left.
Slipping on algae with each step.
Feeling the pull
as it takes me
somewhere
I do not want to go.
When did life become like this?
Clots and pictures.
Pictures of dead people and animals.
smiling at me
wearing linen and pearls.
Hair dyed and lips reddened.
Tongues dipping into birdbaths
Longing to quench a thirst
No water can ever satisfy.
I want to plug my ears.
To run through the fields screaming
in search of silence.
To sit on a rock
and breathe
long and hard and deep
and still
where no one can listen.
To know
I am safe.

A Beginner

The doctor was a beginner,
turned around by a dying king
with a rope round his neck
and a cat in his lap.
A glint of a man,
once outnumbered by
courtesans and queens.
A simple man with a dream,
as all simple men are.
A working class fellow,
happy to pass his days with a beer
or a walk in the woods.
He didn’t know spit,
or blood for that matter,
but he was quick with a knife
and thread.
And when he saw a man in trouble
he would dive in,
head first,
with great aplomb.
And so this man,
this gentle man,
took hold of the city,
like crabgrass,
planting his roots
deep into the affections of others,
never questioning
the malformed foal
or the Cesarean section required.
Never charging more than was absolutely required.
Taking in trades
from the poor:
the occasional pig,
a one-legged rooster,
jars of jelly and home-made jam,
shoes cobbled by arthritic hands,
and sweaters knitted by fair-haired maids.
It was a good life.
A fair life.
That is,
until the king with the rope and the cat
came into his life.
He was summoned to the castle,
where he found the king slumped
in his chair.
Eyes bulging.
Rope taught.
Hands rigid and cold.
Heartbroken over the loss of the Queen’s affection.
And though he tried to save him,
He could not.
He worked for hours,
pumping and blowing,
and praying,
and swearing,
and rubbing hands and feet.
But nothing changed.
The king was dead.
So was his cat.
The doctor went home to his cottage,
locked his door
and turned off the lights.
Days passed.
But there were no calls for him to come.
No jars of jam,
or crippled birds left at his door.
No sweaters knitted by fair hands.
Nothing.
When he did make his way to town,
he was never greeted with a familiar smile,
or pleasant word,
or any word for that matter,
just snorts of disdain.
It was as if he wasn’t himself anymore.
And he wasn’t.
So he loaded up his cart and left,
and tried to become
a beginner
once more.