Tuesday, February 19, 2008

Can't sleep, oh well

The Poem

The poem has nothing
to say right now. The poem
wishes it were somewhere
else—stuffed alongside warm
socks in a drawer, or fishing
with a stick, some thread and
a comically cheerful bobber.

The poem and I once spoke when
it was in a chatty mood. It whispered
and winked like some heiress from
a 1930s screwball flick, it nuzzled
my shoulder and whinnied like a pony.
The poem said, “I wasn’t always like this.
You knew me when I was soot, or a
jonquil, or the chalky cracked grout
in your grandmother’s bathroom, you
watched when I painted your name
with crushed abalone deep inside a
cloud, but it couldn’t last, and I
don’t know why it couldn’t.”

We both smiled, the poem and I,
as it folded up into a tight ball,
became an origami of stillness.


R.L. Bourges said...

oh, beautiful.

Dale said...

So marvelous! This made me laugh. I hope you get some sleep, and that your poem gets out to the river.

Reya Mellicker said...

I love your poetry, and salute your insomnia for forcing you to create it.

That said, hope you slept better last night!

Anonymous said...

The poem kicks ass. Great closing image!

am said...

That poem is a good teacher as well as a good lesson. You turned insomnia into fertile ground. Made it good for something. Hope you sleep well tonight.

Anonymous said...

I loved it.

MB said...

Yeah! Wonderful.

Rethabile said...

Dave said what I'd have wanted to say.

Unknown said...

I absolutely loved this.

Anonymous said...

That is a tight poem. It's as if your speaking to the poem and he is a real person. This one put a smile on my face. Peace