Part of a technical writer’s task is compressed writing with clarity and mostly total neutrality.
Poetry is also all about compression, a different kind of clarity, but it is not neutral, often poetry is a war.
You are a long way away, Einstein far.
I am a new man and old, creaky old,
fossil in the dry river bed old,
And meaner in all kinds of ways.
You were never
this sick and never this impatient with the planet. Right.
I have perfected my snarl. I am the old wounded
groundhog of legendary fame. You are still Stinkerbelle
flown to another dimension, but your shadow hangs around
staring from the wall by my window. The one I will wash next year.
You talked like a machine gun
and lit the noon jealous with your smile.
We were not made for each other.
It was a long cartwheeling car crash of an affair, looked
terrific on the movie screen right up until
we both choked on our popcorn.
Glad I escaped your clutches, the ones you used
to throw me over your shoulder on your way out the door
aiming for new toys, a better life
and another matched set of disappointments.
All we have is our past staring us in the face
daring us to blink.