Home
Home is where I get tackled before I can even think about taking off my dusty backpack. Home is where the dog leaves skid marks running to greet me, then stares at me in silence, disbelieving, and proceeds to solemnly sit on my feet so I can’t leave again. It’s where warm, mouthwatering spices envelop me as soon as I step through the door. Home is where the cat is…nowhere to be seen? Ahem. Well. Home isn’t the tidiest, but it’s also not the messiest. I know where to sidestep to avoid misplaced shoes, or the pile of newspapers that haven’t made it to recycling yet. Home is where the walls themselves feel like a hug. Oh, that’s where the cat went! Of course, home is where the cat gives me a disapproving look from where he’s commandeered my pillow. Home is where I can rule in my cozy sweats and ancient slippers, where I know every lump in my bed, and where I can find my water bottle in pitch black. Home is where the water pressure sucks, but it just means I can sing a little longer while fighting to wash the soap off. It’s where boring food is comforting, where a cold nose wakes me in the morning and where the cat appears as soon as I step in the kitchen. It’s routine. It’s familiar. It’s home; and I wonder, how could I have ever wanted to leave?
Ninety-nine Summers
It hasn’t been a century yet
I feel young
But then I remember
And I am old again
Today I slept till noon
And missed the sunrise
Will I ever see it again?
There is tomorrow, true
But what if tomorrow is cloudy?
And the day after
Simply doesn’t exist
Old and gloomy, but not dead yet
That’s what I lean on
They told me it was hot outside
But I stayed too late
By the time my shorts were on
So were their jackets
Tomorrow will be cold
And the day after
The end of summer
No more beach days
Or lazy afternoons
It scares me
Will I ever feel another summer day?
Ninety-nine summers
Not old enough for setting records
Too old to care
Old enough to set example
Too old to follow it
Will I make it?
To feel another summer
Or see another sunrise
Or will the day after tomorrow
Not exist?
Copyright Anna Treffer
Blue Days
On some days there is more blue under the skin
Not just in the veins, but in the middle of fingers, hands, around knuckles
On those days you get a brief glimpse at some inner workings,
usually hidden
Like the engine of a car,
covered by its bonnet
Something alive,
under the surface
Something everyone needs to survive,
but no one likes to talk about,
like that extra cup of coffee
On those days when there is more blue under the skin,
or the skin seems just a little bit thin,
you get a hint of the soul inside,
looking back at you
Copyright Anna Treffer
The Piano
It stands in the far corner
Hiding by the wall
Shiny black
Reflecting casual faces
Serious lid hides ivory keys
Why is it there?
Who plays it?
Coming in one day
There were three chairs beside it
All of them different
It made one wonder
If three people had been playing
A piece of ridiculous complexity
Or someone didn’t know
Where to put three chairs
And put them there to keep the piano company
It makes you wonder
If someone didn’t know
Where to put a piano
Copyright Anna Treffer
Tea party
Four little ladies
All in their eighties
Pointy hats like felt caps
Pretty cups
In every hand
What bubbles there, you do not know
Long dresses
And shiny tresses
Garden of roses
And long noses
Beware the clock of midnight
Oh what a sight
The riches of the witches
Four little ladies
A tea party
Had
Copyright Anna Treffer
Princess
The blonde would break into song
But before she could become a singer
She pricked her finger
’Twas a spindle
So, she couldn’t mingle
Doomed, forever single
Wicked witch, what an itch
In the tower, couldn’t even shower
She lay sleeping
Until a prince came peeping
He woke her with cold water
With his muscle took her to his castle
Her life on the mend
That was the end
Copyright Anna Treffer
Miss me
I want you to miss me like your chest has been ripped open
Like you’re so distracted you can’t function
Like I am your every thought of your day
Like you have heartburn
Like you can’t sleep till 5am but still wake up expecting to see me there
Like you see me in shadows and on the edge of your blind spot when you drive
Like the sight of roads we walked makes you want to wipe them from existence, no, frame them
Like you want to be so busy you forget me
Like you want to stare out the window seeing my face where you should see the sky,
Hear my voice where you should hear the breeze
Like you’re cursing time for being so short when we were together, and so long now that we are apart
Like you don’t want to talk to anyone because it would tear your thoughts from me
Like a message from me gives you the same relief as finding an air cave 20000 feet under the sea
I want you to miss me like I’m missing you
The places of us
The places where we walked are like fairy circles, meaningless without the rain, our hearts beating against each other, the doubts and exhilaration. Without you, they are just places, but walking by them it is as if some of the spell still remains, a ghost of you, a ghost of us. And I remember like it was yesterday, spinning in the rain, mocking every K-drama that's ever been made. And I am lost all over again, as if you never left.
All of you
I want your tears on my shoulder
I want your frozen hands in mine in the middle of winter
I want your complaints at my dinner table
I want your heart racing against mine during a scary movie
I want your panic over the phone as you realize you forgot your wallet at home
I want your hair blocking my drain
I want your Lego collection cluttering my bookshelf
I want your music bleeding my ears
I want your paint splattered on my carpet
I want your bad puns killing me from the inside
I want your oversalted meals curling my stomach
I want your stuffy candles blocking my nose
I want to wake up to your snoring
I want to fall asleep to your drool on my cheek
More than want,
I need these things,
these things are all of you,
and it's all of you that I need.
Baker’s Hands
I don't want to be alone in the crushing night, mocked by my pillow and the ache in my heart. Why is there no deep heat rub to make the pain go away, or a foam roller just for the little nooks and crannies that have turned to steel since you left? When I was fresh and supple, full of hope, my heart moulded itself in your baker's hands like a ball of cookie dough. Now it could be chipped away by a chisel, chunks of me falling away. You wouldn't be able to change my core anymore, not without splitting me in half and gluing me back into a shadow of my former self.