The better part

A Poem by Douglas Caraballo

I spend my days observing,
Watching, reading, eating.

The ebb and flow of infinity —
of the finite caught up and
time pushed through.

A slow caressing moment to enjoy
the richness of grey in the sky.

My eyes are weary soldiers, with
hours spent staring, glazingly,
at distant places.

Eyes closed/{} presented with some other land
or some other thing,
The try. The frustrated trying to reach
wisdom.

Where am I actually from?
I retrace my fingers over memories
of cribs, and front yards, and basements,
and bathrooms. Cigarettes, and bars,
and women, and alchol, and bad breath,
and drugs, and running, laughing, and fucking.
a cracked knuckle, a chart watched, laundry, a puppy,
rage, leaving, dreams, guitars, blaring ears and light,
the cold in north dakota, the wild fervor of being out of
control, The noise of shaking people from their weather talk,
The George Washington bridge in a blizzard, walking from 96th street
to the Lower east side, dumping quarters for dollars, for beer and another night.

Eyes closed and open observing in distant unrelation.
Haggling with the better part of me to show itself one last time.