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ani difranco - parameters |
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thirty-three years go by |
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and not once do you come home |
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to find a man sitting in your bedroom |
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that is |
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a man you don't know |
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who came a long way to deliver one very specific message: |
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lock your back door, you idiot |
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however invincible you imagine yourself to be |
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you are wrong |
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|
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thirty-three years go by |
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and you loosen the momentum of teenage nightmares |
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your breasts hang like a woman's |
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and you don't jump at shadows anymore |
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instead you may simply pause to admire |
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those that move with the grace of trees |
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dancing past streetlights |
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and you walk through your house without turning on lamps |
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sure of the angle from door to table |
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from table to staircase |
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sure of the number of steps |
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seven to the landing |
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two to turn right |
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then seven more |
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sure you will stroll serenely on the moving walkway of memory |
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across your bedroom |
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and collapse with a sigh onto your bed |
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shoes falling |
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thunk thunk |
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onto the floor |
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and there will be no strange man |
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suddenly all that time sitting there |
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sitting there on what must be the prize chair |
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in your collection of uncomfortable chairs |
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with a wild look in his eyes |
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and hands that you cannot see |
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holding what? |
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you do not know |
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|
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so sure are you of the endless drumming rhythm of your isolation |
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that you are painfully slow to adjust |
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if only because |
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yours is not that genre of story |
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still and again, life cannot muster the stuff of movies |
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no bullets shattering glass |
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instead fear sits patiently |
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fear almost smiles when you finally see him |
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though you have kept him waiting for thirty-three years |
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and now he has let himself in |
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and he has brought you fistfuls of teenage nightmares |
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though you think you see, in your naivete |
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that he is empty handed |
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and this brings you great relief |
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at the time |
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|
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new as you are, really, to the idea that |
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even after you've long since gotten used to the parameters |
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they can all change |
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while you're out one night having a drink with a friend |
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some big hand may be turning a big dial |
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switching channels on your dreams |
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until you find yourself lost in them |
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and watching your daily life with the sound off |
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and of course having cautiously turned down |
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the flame under your eyes |
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there are more shadows around everything |
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your vision a dim flashlight |
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that you have to shake all the way to the outhouse |
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your solitude elevating itself like the spirit of the dead |
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presiding over your supposed repose |
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not really sleep at all |
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just a sleeping position and a series of suspicious sounds |
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a clanking pipe |
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a creaking branch |
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the footfalls of a cat |
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all of this and maybe |
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the swish of the soft leather of your intruder's coat |
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as you walk him step by step back to the door |
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having talked him down off the ledge of a very bad idea |
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soft leather, big feet, almond eyes |
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the kinds of details the police officer would ask for later |
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with his clipboard |
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and his pistol |
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in your hallway |
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end |
