As I write this,
I’m still breathing hard from a night of fitful sleeping,
My V-neck shirt clinging like dew to my warm chest
While the ceiling fan does its best to gin up
A gentle wind.
It’s, let’s see,
I’ll need my glasses for a bit,
2:38 in the morning,
And I’m jotting down my thoughts at the bedside table
Like the doctor said.
Oh, and my feelings,
I’m also recording my feelings.
The poetry’s been difficult these days.
It doesn’t flow like it once did.
The Nile’s all dried up, you’d ask,
Or turned to blood in plague? And I’d chuckle.
I tried some in the first stanza with the sweat simile,
But I think I yawned in the middle of it.
I remember you used to love a haiku I once wrote
About the cold side of the pillow
(Sort of on the fly, just to see you smile really).
Only now do I see why you liked it so,
As I cycle and recycle this old feather bag
To find that cool shadowy feeling in which to lay
My weary head.
It’s only when I glance over at yours in its pristine condition,
And I notice no sagging indention in the center,
That I remember your pillow is always cool now,
So, I’ll just lay my glasses back down on the nightstand,
At 2:52 in the morning,
And I’ll climb once more into my tempest of dreams
Where you and I are together again,
And somewhat wispy in our world of memory,
Before my body shakes awake
At 3:41 AM,
And I lean for my pencil
From my sloppy and disheveled side of the bed.