I Should be Alone: Poem 24

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It’s five in the morning; I should be alone,

the only one up in this house,

as I finish what I started twenty-four hours ago,

this poetry marathon, a sleepless creative

hell of my own making, only because I have

to work in two hours and then fry myself on

a soccer field after that–ah but sleep.

She’s just around the turned corner of the morning.

But who do I hear creaking the floorboards above me?

It’s she who sometimes doesn’t sleep at night.

The insomnia came after the concussion, that kick

in the head just over one year ago.

I saw her asleep at eight, while I was on poem fourteen.

I’m not surprised to hear her stomp, stomp, pull open

a drawer, stomp, stomp, and plop into her squeaky bed.

I had forgotten how quiet the night was in my room

when she was away at college up north, playing soccer.

But at this hour, this sacred sleep hour when no one

arises or goes to bed, I lay in my bed, IPad propped on

my naked belly, the screen’s light, casting a shadow on

the ceiling while the fan blows white noise about me,

and struggle through the last “poem” of this marathon,

the final, number twenty-four, for which I am thankful.

 

 

Post script: This was the last poem of a grueling 24 hours, and as the hours plodded on, my poetry became more prose blips or journal entries than poetry, aside from the form.

So, is this really poetry? What makes a poem? Inquiring minds need to know.

She Walked Alone

  
Slip off my boots to a world teetering at the root, 

floundering in endless shift.

When anger is the coffee wake up, the split second fury,

there is nowhere to go from there–

escalation peaked at the start.

Chafing at my patience, she leaves the cafe wounded,

walks home to escape the noise, arrogance and

irritation incited by a felling crowd chopping pig.

Her stomach and head ache yet again.

She walks out, and I glower at my coffee.

She walks out, and I fail to trace her steps.

She walks out, and I grouse at you like a heat-seeking

missile finding the volcano erupted.

I did not find her.

Anger found me.

She walked alone.