I dream of a rose the color of eyelids
on a soft lambswool bed amidst a fragrant
cedar forest, damp earth and twinkling leaves
playing with the sun. I feel the warmth on my cheek.
Here drink this it will help you sleep.
I sleep. I must, for I wake each morningread more
Blankly we stare, nightly
at glowing screens
scrolling text and convenient images
Awake at 3 AM and the clock
flashes the time to my conscience.
Toss and turn on the uneven bed
fix the covers, sheets and pillows
listen to the grinding of your neck
in blue midnite impatience
there is no grace in insomnia
Your hand touches mine
we turn to face each other
on the pillow
your eyes dance darkly
through your lazy bangs
And I dream
in those quiet times
of friends past
and faces lost
words spoken, or not,
of clasping hands
and weary eyes.
I dream of lovely agonies
and careless minutes
My last dollar walked out arm in arm with my last hope
for the month and my dignity.
Clint Eastwood’s bloody face is on the television
full of spite.
There is a woman on his arm who pretends that need is love.
It’s a good thing to be drunk on Sundays
because the cat is out of the house
and the car is fixed
for once the cold has missed this city
the lamplights breathe, sigh
a gentle exhale
How dire the moonlight shining
on windowpanes and rooftop shingles
the plain things overlooked
in day to daylight brightness.
How pale and weak this
thing that hangs and stains
the night in loneliness,
sad blue night
I suppose it would not have been much to simply sit there and listen.
But it began again, that same argument that we’ve been having
for the past ten years.
“Listening never hurt anybody,” my Mother would say to me
as I’d ball my fists and cover my eyes.
All the same, I had neither the patience nor the time to learn about
how wrong I was again.
So I left.
And in doing so, lost another opportunity.