It’s a green book and a red pen that writes

By Filipe Wesley

It’s a green book and a red pen that writes,
A man wearing blue shoes,
And a woman: a white dress.

With hazel eyes and long eyelashes that sway—
Up and down.

It’s my brown leather shoes, thrown away,
Or my sprained ankles,
Of earlier this year,
Or my DVD player,
That I rightfully took back.

It’s the button that popped off my jeans,
And my suits I never wear,
And my neckties with pre-made knots
Cause I haven’t figured them out yet.

It’s the annoying bigness of my hair,
And my pudgy belly that she loves—
So much.
And my second-hand candles;
I never burn.

Sometimes it’s the dirty bathroom floor,
Or my pictures on the wall,
Or my burgundy pajama pants,
Or the Coral Reef Surf Shop.

It’s using the same comforter for three years—
Loving it.
Fighting for it,
Even though mom’s bought me a new set.

It’s finding a compromise with mom,
And sleeping with both.

It’s that trashcan that never fills up by my desk,
And the overflowing one
No one will touch by the toilet.

It’s coping with Australian roommates
Who call home at three in the morning.

And ten out of thirteen messages from
That same little girl
In my answering machine.

It’s National Geographic’s
Earth at Night
Poster.
It’s beautiful.

It’s my three-week laundry
That teases the senses.

It’s selling my computer for cash.
It’s getting a C because it’s gone.
At least it’s a C+!

It’s a lamp with no light,
A pen with no ink,
And no paper to be found,
Anywhere.
It’s a writer’s nightmare.

Use your imagination.

It’s my roommate spending Christmas with his family,
And his alarm clock daring and staring at mine.

It’s the Ten Indian Commandments,
And the one that truly speaks to me.

It’s my posters and my television,
And my phone,
And my bed,
And the yellow shoebox
On the floor.
It’s the Home Box Office.

It’s my dirty floor,
And the old vacuum cleaner looking at it.

It’s the drawer full of medicine
From past colds I’m still getting over.

It’s my neighbor who won’t spend Christmas with his family.

It’s all the other families who died today going home for Christmas.

It's for all the soldiers that will never see Christmas.

It's my talking George W. Bush doll.

It’s my dancing hamster
And my Mighty Mouse in Technicolor
Steel plate.

It’s the wet towel my roommate left
Hanging over my headboard.
It’s the pack of gum behind my desk—
I can’t reach.

It’s me thanking God I don’t look like a Latino
When I walk into restaurants—
In the Boonies.

It’s me praying that she won’t hear my foreign accent
When I ask for the ham,
The mashed potatoes,
Yam,
Gravy,
And some sweet tea.

“Oh, and some coffee.”

It’s my young and fruitful library
Of books and a few DVDs,
And that Star Trek collection I’m selling on eBay—
For cash.

It’s my family,
Solemn,
Picture hanging on the wall.
It’s Barthes’ parenthesis (it’s death).

It’s Hokusai in the Well of the Great Wave of Kanagawa,
And Plato in the Republic.

It’s Faulkner in Yoknapatawpha County,
And Emily Dickinson at home.

It’s the Wachowski brothers in the Desert of the Real,
And Tolkien in the Shire.

It’s Lucas in the Death Star,
And Welty in a very long Worn Path.

It’s Joyce in Dublin,
And Melville straddling that white whale.
(Damn! Look at him go!)

It’s Hawthorne and Hester
Alone in the forest.

It’s Confucius’ illustrious illustrations,
And the death of Mufasa.

It’s Simba running away and coming back.

It’s her tears.

It’s the Circle of Life.

It’s a green book and a red pen that writes,
A man wearing blue shoes,
And a woman, a white dress.

Copyright © 2005 Filipe Wesley de Souza
December 23, 2005