All That Is, Isn't

The floor is cold. Cold as if the spirit of the Arctic stole South and hides under my house. Sharp pins like claws push through the spaces between the atoms of my floor. I am wearing heavy wool socks and genuine sheepskin slippers. The socks are a gift from a friend and the slippers a gift from another. The pins claw through these gifts also.
It is cold outside and cold beyond that and colder further away. Cold and empty is all I really have.
I had hoped that someday I would be someone, but I know myself and my core is empty. Everything around me reminds me of this: the slots on the toaster are empty. My tea glass is empty. The bowl on my teaspoon is empty. My house; even the crystal gazing globe on my desk is empty.
I have poured heat into the empty; lovers and travels, things and drugs and it has swallowed all and remains complete and full of nothing. Tears and rage and pleading evaporate. I am married to the Empty. There is no divorce and no parting.
Late at night, the streets are empty. My refrigerator was empty when I bought it. My shoes, all except this pair are empty. My pockets, coats, hats and sweaters are all empty.
It is the emptiness that makes us useful.
This is why I must come to love the empty, in myself and in all things. Even the Arctic, that is eating the heat from under my floor, I must come to love.

Forgetting to Forget

All those damn hours spent training
A spinning mind to glide
Into a gentle humming.
Unhurried and disinterested.
Slack lips on sleeping child face.

A lifetime of red leaf sunsets
Falling through gnarled arthritic fingers:
A failing memory and a shining face;
A remembering of the pieces and
A forgetting to forget.