I wrote this poem when I was 23, living alone in a basement efficiency. It was inspired by my fascination for a girl I admired from a distance. We were both extremely reserved and I never did approach her. Anyway, the only distractions in the basement were the cockroaches, and ants, and my own thoughts at times. It was a good place to write, despite the bugs.

by Joe Engel

If I could, I would send you

strictly subliminal messages

that would blur bright

silver streaks across 

the air that surrounds you.

You would rub your eyes thinking

the sun caught you wrong

off some chrome or glass then I

would pop into your head

like a subconscious sprite

and you would laugh,

because the thought of me tickles

like some spot on you

that has finally been touched.

I think of all the brilliant secrets

you seem to keep beneath the red

hair on your head, hair

that can send wicked

cities into flames, secrets

anyone would want to keep

because giving them away

would rob them of their value

-you’re like the pope in this way.

I see an archangel floating

over your crib as a baby

baptizing you with gentle fire

while feeding you information

in great flashes, you cooing

over this new knowledge

and your fresh hair growing

like a slow, slow sunrise.

I imagine this world of yours

where the air you exhale

is laced with flakes of gold

and closed minds open in your wake.

And I only know that small

omniscient smile of yours as I sit

in this smoke stained chair

with shaky hands and shallow breath

believing in the unknown.

So Maybe I’ll try to collect

some things you’ve touched

and place them by my bible;

a bar of soap, and a fork

from some restaurant where

the chef makes a dish in your honor.

But truthfully,

I’ll think of you in small slices

for a while which I’ll cherish

like pie on a silver dish,

until these thoughts are gone

and I’m left with my own reflection

on a polished, empty plate.