Margin

I was driving home tonight -- the path home is dark

very dark

even though I live in a huge city

I live at the edge

and there are still wide open spaces here

where there are no city lights at all

Tex called me

Pixie snoozed in the back seat

and we chatted as I drove home

Tex is slammed at work

and juggling a lot of things

and still sick as well

after we hung up

I thought about a poem I wrote a few years back

when I was in a bad place

I felt alone then

and unimportant

(I've posted it here)

Margin
scribbled like an afterthought
on the right
and the left
of the page
a doodle at the bottom
a mark made when you think the pen might be out of ink
and you need to get it flowing again
I'm not the text
I'm not the story
I'm a random decoration
I wonder
if he looks at the sheet
and wonders why he
cluttered
it
up
with such unnecessary scratchings

As I thought about this poem

I thought

I'm in the margins here too

but not a doodle

a decoration

ever present

a part of every page

every day

a reminder

a subtle mark

that he carries with him

and I carry with me

and I smiled into the darkness on my drive

until I arrived home again.