The Clock Strikes Matches March 5, 2016Posted by The Typist in Poetry, The Narrative, The Pointless, The Typist.
Insomnia keeps its own counsel
leaves me alone with my own thoughts
matches flaring & vanishing
in small puffs of smokes of which
I have none. I’m done with them
my old companions in solitude
leaving me to brood over
whether it’s too early for coffee.
Sleep is not on the horizon.
I am low and mercurial
befitting the aimless hour
spent dreading sunrise.
Not even a streetlight mockingbird
for company; the damn cat’s asleep
on my cool pillow & P. breathes
gently against my restlessness.
Old enough for aches & pains
that wake, young enough to worry
the small hours like handkerchiefs
into twisted knots of insomnia.
If you were expecting some ringing resolution
you are obviously dreaming August popsicles
of childhood deliciously dripping but you’re
only drooling, mouth open, on your pillow
not your best look & morning’s bright
mirror horror awaits your yawning hour
while I silently wait for nothing,
an empty can left out overnight
without so much as a racoon
for company. The moon set last afternoon
leaving me alone in the dark, lighting
matches with no excuse for madness.