Bio Note: Just turned 73, so, in my wisdom, here are some poems to cheer up all the younger folks.
“In a real dark night of the soul it is always three o'clock in the morning….” ―F. Scott Fitzgerald
Household of mouse-creaks, muted clacking of toilet seats, gurgling water cooler and colons. Bedtime toddies outlasted, heart-thuds heavy, but too tired for novels, sex, or sleeping, we both tiptoe, not to not arouse the already roused, but to pity the gabbling in our brains, or stage whispers of worry, sorrows sighing from furnace vents, half lines from half-remembered poems, or haiku— wisping through thin walls soup and cigarette smells, trash truck at five clashing with itself.
Came down the ramp so fast for a while we were in a race, and so I sped up to let it in but it had disappeared from the rear-view mirror by then, and since I’m so old and superstitious everything’s an omen, and so I pictured, just for a moment, me, migrant, squatting in the empty bed, my hair blowing backwards, on the way to some green field of sweet watermelon manna, or orchard of ripe red apples I’d be allowed to pick, but forbidden to bite.
©2020 William Greenway
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