Παρασκευή, 24 Σεπτεμβρίου 2010

The note

It isn’t I ...no it isn’t I!
It is the jostled image
Of someone I once knew.

Not long ago.
Just yesterday it seems
I dreamt of gothic spires
Transcending clouds
And libraries thick and dark
With painted domes
And names like Carlyle and Descartes
Now the only names I know
Are in the local grocery store
At night I lie awake
And listen to my husband snore.
Tomorrow I will take a lover
Daytime hard and undercover.
Once I counted stars
Now it’s pennies gray hairs
And the years I have left
When my daughter's twenty
I’ll be fifty
If I’m lucky
Which I am not

Tonight I'll write that note
and stick it in my house dress pocket
Or better still
I'll start a story
Of a woman in distress
But first I'll bake a cake
And do the laundry
These things they can not wait
Once I'm done
I'll take my leave
Go after all those haunting dreams
My feet are cold
My slippers worn
My soul is torn

Tonight I'll draw my will
Disown my life and all its dribble
Leave my dishrag to my husband
Now asleep in sheets of grace
Not a worry line upon his face
How he hoards his little kisses
Tasteless things inside my mouth
A consolation prize I can do without
Time to make the tea
Time to make the tea
Oh, where's the kettle?
Dear me, where is the kettle?



Δεν υπάρχουν σχόλια:

Δημοσίευση σχολίου