Meanwhile by Richard Siken

Meanwhile

 

Driving, dogs barking, how you get used to it, how you make

                                the new streets yours.

Trees outside the window and a big band sound that makes you feel like

          everything's okay,

      a feeling that lasts for one song maybe,

                          the parentheses all clicking shut behind you.

            The way we move through time and space, or only time.

The way it's night for many miles, and then suddenly

                                       it's not, it's breakfast

    and you're standing in the shower for over an hour,

                         holding the bar of soap up to the light.

I will keep watch. I will water the yard.

        Knot the tie and go to work. Unknot the tie and go to sleep.

                             I sleep. I dream. I make up things

    that I would never say. I say them very quietly.

                            The trees in the wind, the streetlights on,

        the click and flash of cigarettes

being smoked on the lawn, and just a little kiss before we say goodnight.

     It spins like a wheel inside you: green yellow, green blue,

                                                                     green beautiful green.

It's simple: it isn't over, it's just begun. It's green. It's still green.