A sad child

You're sad because you're sad.
It's psychic. It's the age. It's chemical.
Go see a shrink or take a pill,
or hug your sadness like an eyeless doll
you need to sleep.

Well, all children are sad
but some get over it.
Count your blessings. Better than that,
buy a hat. Buy a coat or pet.
Take up dancing to forget.

Forget what? 
Your sadness, your shadow,
whatever it was that was done to you
the day of the lawn party
when you came inside flushed with the sun,
your mouth sulky with sugar,
in your new dress with the ribbon
and the ice-cream smear,
and said to yourself in the bathroom,
I am not the favorite child.

My darling, when it comes
right down to it
and the light fails and the fog rolls in
and you're trapped in your overturned body
under a blanket or burning car,

and the red flame is seeping out of you
and igniting the tarmac beside your head
or else the floor, or else the pillow,
none of us is; 
or else we all are. 

The Unknown Path-A Poem

The early morning fog clouds his vision,
yet he can make out her outline
within the shroud of the heavy mist.

Her divine figure entices him to join her,
while she also signals with a finger to follow.

He is hesitant to traverse this unknown path,
but her smile, like a beacon welcoming
weary seafarers, seduces his senses,
and so he complies with her request.

In what seems like hours, he follows her,
his heart craving the delights she promises;
so blinded is he in his singular pursuit,
he does not notice their space never narrows.

Then in the distance he hears the familiar
wails of a siren, warning him to return.

But he already knows it is too late,
for he is now lost in his dream.

Minority Poem

In my room, I talk 
to my invisible guests: 
they do not argue, but wait 

Till I am exhausted, 
then they slip away 
with inscrutable faces. 

I lack the means to change 
their amiable ways, 
although I love their gods. 

It's the language really 
separates, whatever else 
is shared. On the other hand, 

Everyone understands 
Mother Theresa; her guests 
die visibly in her arms. 

It's not the mythology 
or the marriage customs 
that you need to know, 

It's the will to pass 
through the eye of a needle 
to self-forgetfulness. 

The guests depart, dissatisfied; 
they will never give up 
their mantras, old or new. 

And you, uneasy 
orphan of their racial 
memories, merely 

Polish up your alien 
techniques of observation, 
while the city burns