singing at the end of the show

It was Bob Dylan, or maybe not, but a man was singing
while the credits rolled and the words were poems with music
I have not sung for awhile, these pages blank for weeks.
my mind has wandered through space, watching molecules
dance off surfaces, forming icy dendrites that shimmer in
starlight.  that is a poem.
and dreamed of beaches where young black men
move as fast as the wind, a ragged soccer ball flying
impossibly high towards the sun.
their upturned faces and limbs poised to catch it,
sending it to the poorly marked, but well known, goal post.
I haven't been writing in black and white, but thoughts have
swirled in my mind, in the darkness of night bleeding into
daytime.
I am singing inside, sometimes with no words, only
a beating heart.

when you don't like someone

when you don't like someone
for no reason
just something
instinctual, their smell, the tone of their voice,
how they stand, even at a distance
but the dislike settles
in, uninvited,
unwelcome.
and we fight against it
inside our heads
talk never works
the best is to hope that your big
smile reaches into both of you
so maybe you can like them
just a little bit
more.