Optimism

I leaned over and whispered to her,
sweetheart, we're gonna fall down now.

And sure enough we did.
Now I’m haunted by a coconut monkey with bifocals.
We couldn't even remember the moment we found it.

It just sits on a dresser like a race number
slipping off the trail, or a mancala stone;
a soul; something molten and unburied.
Steam-punk heirlooms and ornate woodchips
with a hint of periwinkle blue sneaking over torn edges;
a rock not even heavy enough for a paper weight.

We weren't superstitious or anything;
we just held onto it, put it in a bag,
now it's the only thing left we didn't throw away.

So we are going over numbers again
with optimism
and chagrin.

It took five dives to get down there
all to find it was 8,000 pounds.
A number pinned to a page,
a blocked thirteen, black and ominous.
Yo-yos with knots and fragments of pottery,
interesting pieces of ancient garbage,

but, they have no sentimental value at all.
They say violins are anthropomorphic,
but ours never worked.

It had a bad bridge,
but how could we throw out the heart?

So, I'm reading over my poetry portfolio, you know, the one I handed in? Well, it's not exactly good or anything. I can't be too surprised, I wasn't exactly buoyed in reality at the time. The drifting tone, complete lack of flow, bad syntax, and even spelling errors are quite egregious for the class' expectations. So it goes, but I'll post the best ones here as I clean them up a little.

While it was always a poem about relationships, now it has some direction to it. It’s a sad poem, but yet it fights the apathetic tone most of my poems seem to have, ultimately finding some sort of value in something. Well, go figure love would be the topic to fight such a habit.