Technicalities

a poem

in the moments before my friend spotted the doll
my mind was on the seriousness of the moment
the information needed to process the actions
that we have to undertake as we approach the fall

in the moments after my friend spotted the doll
i needed to process out the parts of my mind 
that have long accepted that Toy Story is real
and that this poor doll is not in fact alive

in the moments before we found the spot the doll
had come to rest so I could take the photograph
one that my friend knew I needed to take
we navigated the grass that was, and is, full of goose shit

in the moments after I took the photo of the doll
i began to compose the meter for this verse
my mind a tape of thematic progressions
my heart a smorgasbord of dactyls and iambs

in the moments when I was writing the poem about the doll
i realized that the poem is not, in fact, about the doll
nor is it completely about my friend's kind salve of my insanity
my crazy is a soft kind now, one that can be contained

in the moments that I knew I was a real person and not a doll
i was sitting on a roof in the deep summertime
having climbed there with my mother's butter knives
and I threw them with force at the wall of the buttress

in the moments when I played little league that summer
having found out that my mother had gotten a call
from a man she once dated who noticed that I could throw
his voice on the line when he confirmed my spot, 'Thanks Doll'

in the moments when I played center for the first time
a young Italian boy hit a rope double into the gap
and I ran it down on a bounce and spun, firing it on a line
he slid hard into second, but the ball beat him, and we got the call

in the moments when you devise an internal poetic scheme
the beats and the time and the flow and the rhymes
you need for your mind to be free of any contaminating thoughts
like about Andy or Buzz Lightyear or your sister's Barbie doll

in the moments when you pulled off the head of the doll
and considered for a moment to hide it, but you heard voices
so in an act of prepubescent mercy you put it back
and carried it as an act of grace for forty years and forty nights

in the moments you think you are alone with your thoughts
they burst forth onto the page in a deluge of incoherence
only to come together as you stir in a bit of music about the doll
to reveal that you were not like the boy who hated toys

in the moments you are thinking again about the doll
and you think about the walk with your friend
and you think about your years behind the wall
you realize that, in fact, technically, you have never been free

in the moments that you are finishing the verse
and you consider the doll, again, as an object, as a cruciform
you see your reflection in the mirrors of your mind
some broken, some older, some smaller, and some gone

in the moments you desire to become like the prophets of old
in the caves in the desert with only your own mind to contend with
and you sit down to write it all down about how you fell down
in that picture, in that cave, you are not alone, you brought a doll