FRANCINE WITTE - POEMS

Francine Witte is the author of four poetry chapbooks, two flash fiction chapbooks, and the full-length poetry collections Café Crazy (Kelsay Books) and the forthcoming The Theory of Flesh (Kelsay Books)  Her play, Love is a Bad Neighborhood, was produced in NYC this past December. She lives in NYC.

4 a.m.
​

​and I’m wide awake as thoughts trickle
from my brainfaucet. My therapist is away
 
on vacay, leaving me to slosh my dead feet
across flooded floorboards. She gave me
 
the number of the on-call doc in case I wake up
chasing my fears around the room, or start to drown
 
in the waterfall of odd regrets and leftover hopes.
 
I’m sure I lost the on-call’s number. And hell,
she’s probably asleep. Meanwhile, my 4 a.m. life
 
is like a dress I thought would fit better but now
is crumpled in a chair where soon it will be submerged
 
in waterthoughts, get all shriveled up,
a lost cause waiting to be put
 
in the goodwill pile. Of course,
I’m talking about the dress.

Not Calling
​

​is the same as calling.  Wasn’t it supposed
to help me let go?  Wasn’t it supposed
to stop the wanting?  But instead, I still
think about you.  Long for your longing.
What would that look like, I wonder.
Probably the opposite of how you looked
at me last time we met.  Nothing but empty coolness
in your eyes.  I could have been anyone to you,
instead of the person I wanted to be.  The one who
has something you need so bad, that you will search
for it anywhere on me and do it for as long as it takes.
But clearly, that will never happen.  You will always
look at me cool, indifferent, friend.  I wish you could
see how much I have stopped needing you .  How
I’m not calling.  How easy I can slide away.  Do you
even notice how much strong I have become? 
Tell me.  Do you?  Do you?

Fed up 
​

​to here.
No, higher.
Empire State building
fed up.  King Kong
fed up.  How long
have you got fed up.
 
Wanna hear a story?
Okay, boy meets girl.
Boy meets girl’s best
friend.  You already
know how this story ends.
 
I’m how old,
and I’ll tell you
what I know
about men
…
there that was it.
Wanna hear it again?
 

End of the day
​

​and the sunlight slumps over
the roof, and sleep starts to gather
in your legs, your eyes, and the rooms
fill with vanishing light, and pockets
of the day become part of you, and you
are just another body now, reaching
for night dreams to tell you who
were, who you are, or who
will become, and if you ever
do get an answer, you might
believe it was there the entire
time, right in front of you, waiting,
just waiting for you to stand still.