The clock read 3:27,
And since I use the 24-hour kind of time
I knew it was the morning,
Earlier even than I usually make me wake up,
So I tried to go back to sleep,
But I remembered the dream
As I rarely,
Rarely,
Do–
So much so that I have thought
I have lost the ability to dream–
So I tried to write it down,
Myself as a landlord,
Living in the building whose pieces I rent,
Trying to keep everything together and moving,
Not entirely succeeding
Even though the residents seemed to appreciate
The work I did to keep them happy

It seemed
It would be a good thing to write,
A source for several stories in diverse styles,
Something of an anthology although following one line,
But it vanishes even as I put pixel to page,
And only these lines remain of it.

That there is
Some suitcase overstuffed or steamer trunk whose hinges and latches strain
I’m sure
But an armoire into which to unpack is less certain.
Do you know anyone who makes furniture?

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I squeeze the bottle again and again
The honey burbling as another drop struggles to fall
And I have to wonder once more if
It is worth it to struggle so for
Just one more small taste of sweetness

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The day, at last, has come that I have sought;
The joy its coming brings, I’d near forgot
As I by reams of paper have been caught.
But soon, I shall have leave to go and play
At being young again while the bright day
Shines out across the hills. I seldom say
Such things, of course, since I my work must do,
But seldom saying does not make untrue
What is thus said, and joy does now me woo.
It beckons from outside the window’s pane,
Makes its intentions for me clear and plain,
Suggests that soon I’ll find some ease for pain
I took these several months to figures run–
Perhaps this time I may well have some fun!

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The string has to be taut for the bow to pull sweet sounds from it,
And a sure hand has to be had for so much to be true,
But it is all too easy, when trying to tune,
To make something snap, and there is no fixing it after

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The last few dozen yards beckon,
And though my legs are grown heavy
And my breath is raggedly in and out,
Still, I swallow and start to sprint,
Knowing that once I break the tape,
I can rest a while before the next event

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Reading for the work I do,
And there is still a lot of it I do
Even now in these later days,
I remember when I read for the joy of it,
Something I seem not to do anymore,
And I wonder where the years have gone,
Even as I have to get back to
Poring over the pages

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And go forth with glee
At the writing you get!

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The flowers emerge from the soil again
Green-built blooms rising from between the stones
The gravel and pebbles and chunks of rock
Leavings of tree-roots walking through
Still waving proudly at the roadsides
And I smile to see them
Even if I dare not stop to smell them
Knowing that the traffic will not slow for me
And that I will not last long as a speedbump

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There are times
I think
I ought to be
The kind of guy who
Goes out camping,
But then the rain falls
And such thoughts wash away,
Ripples on my windows

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Doom keeps getting
Closer and closer,
Nearing arrival,
And I have never been so glad
Someone can’t find the clit

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Although I would like to rehearse
With every day a little verse,
I’ve work to do, and it gets worse
If I should e’er neglect it.

I still will do my little part
To press ahead with ragged art,
Thus easing upset of my heart,
Which I’ve too oft neglected.

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