Wet Shoes (Tabula Rasa)
What stayed young, what was always old
there was no time
to be insignificant,
inherent value,
that only comes
after winning again
and again
and again,
no stars tonight,
but I remember
when my past
was aligned,
I was blind:
insufficient foresight,
adopt vicarious destiny,
it was all at once,
to be just a boy,
was never enough,
a jab at my shoulder,
my gut brings
the caffeine to
a boil,
split the rush
with my shadow,
hide the fall,
I wash my fault
with aloe, it’s time
to hit the road
and get gone,
listen closely;
I’m still going,
I’ll run over y’all,
even if slowly,
I tried looking far
beyond open arms,
like that would show me,
time could’ve pulled
a fast one on me,
would I have
expired with my openness?
by the time I start
to question who
drew my line of sight,
for many miles,
the slowest grind persists,
the mirror’s shadow
starts to tower
from just behind,
looks like I’ve
got some homework
due in the next life,
there is a seat
at the table just
over the ocean,
I kept listening
when it went quiet,
should I pass
on my aching feet,
I forewarn not to
follow in my footsteps,
my extension
of the deadline,
is riding at Godspeed,
pending tabula rasa,
I close my eyes
in disbelief,
telling myself,
“I’ll get it this time;
just wait,
but don’t watch,
soon, you will see”
This is the second poem, “wet shoes,” from my sixth poetry collection, the great blanket.
— Chicano poet from Southern California
