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Monkey Mind
Bruised Poetry
Little bits of me sitting on the curb black-bagged
waiting for the sanitation haul.
Convinced the afterlife
like tossed, crumpled poetry
is highly over-rated.
Definitely not housed in some designated landfill
south of the I-95.
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It’s not that I’ll miss
the geese by the lakeside of the road,
hand-in-hand sun-soaked walks in a cushioned meadow,
fragrant wildflowers
and blades of purple grass.
Barefoot.
His relaxed smile.
The way we would laugh, even when the world
slowly and suddenly fell apart.
Still, a small part of us remains
on whatever we have touched,
wherever we have been.
Now, it seems so long ago
like one last tarnished moonlit kiss
indelibly imprisoned
in the creases
of my scattered monkey mind.
Grace notes: My monkey mind. The one that jumps from present
to past, from love to loss to moments of enlightenment. Wandering,
disjointed, untamed, digressed, loosely intertwined thoughts and
memories and musings, like a monkey swinging from branch to branch, recalling, reliving how incredibly hard it was for me to get over a breakup and move on with my life.
But maybe a monkey mind is not such a bad thing for a writer?
Maybe it’s my salvation. My reincarnation. My reinvention. What do you think?
© Connie Song 2026. All Rights Reserved.
