... To Bed, July o7, 2o13

Sunday,
   Disappointed with this other site I'm on. People don't "appreciate" my poetry much, or so it seems to me. So, I quit it. Plan to spend more time here and on my Facebook page, RRW Poetry. I need readers bad who like my work. Don't need people who don't get into what I write. This is another one of my poems that got passed over.

…To Bed

 

My eyes too anemic tonight

to bother with this bit of poetry
still fluttering about on my tongue.
My cheap reading glasses from
WalGreens’ Pharmacy are of little
help. The smudges on their lenses
generating blurry, gray ghosts who
appear on the pasty white screen  
of my computer monitor.  The shadow
cast by the table lamp also seems to be
something newly risen from the grave.

 

I place each word quite carefully

in military straight, unyielding lines
forming a sort of chain gang rhyme
and rhythm, tapping out a song I hope
gets the pragmatic (if less than dramatic)
job done, and forces my mind, finally,
to push back the chair that binds me
here in these withering hours,
on this particular night, to this cluttered,
coffee cup stained desk where my laptop
hums an electric weariness so profound
I must include it in this poem.

 

I wait (not too impatiently) for a desert,

a dry patch, a Brawny paper towel thought
to emerge and soak up all unnecessary,
unseemly drips and drops: the occasional
inactive verb, misused pronouns, conjunctions,
all the incoherent blips and blobs, and typos,
that really, really sinful working class grammar
that stammers its way through my stubby,
illiterate, node shaped fingers.

 

I wait as the neglected pencils and pens

in their cracked, Masson jar home wait,
as the unused, dust covered stationary
on the desktop waits,
as the amber colored streetlight
on the corner outside
my blindfolded window waits…

 

All of us waiting for something

magically poetic to happen so 
we may (desperately) go to bed. 
—rrw o6-1o-13