Sta.sh
Degrees Do Worse Warped By Fragments
I.
I sit among a contingent of fresh-faced athletes doing mostly
Nothing,
Reading a book on the crosses of cosmogony when I feel a hand
Tapping
On my shoulder. I turn around like a toddler’s wind-up toy and
Find
No face to match the arm suspended in space by something unseen
II.
Faces of clocks abound on every wall I sit across from, next to or
Near;
It makes no sense to me. Half an hour will pass before I have slept
Enough
Hours, and yet exhaustion always accompanies me, even during the
Brief
Rush of excitement I feel when the clocks cease ticking.
III.
Library books are beginning to pile up, most of them long overdue
Sitting
On shelves read less than twice, ones never even cracked open for a
Peek
At their lively entrails, innards I normally would be happy to gorge on.
Bestial
I sit in the dark and wait for hunger to take me somewhere new.
IV.
Game shows are on and I have to buy a vowel to finish the conversation
We
Are having at the dinner table. She is seldom satisfied with anything I
Have
To say. The word can only be “commandeer” but those canaries chirp
Nothing.
I reach across the dinner tray but she has already changed the channel.
V.
Open doors, open windows are bothering me now like a nervous twitch
Tied
Between my lips. The breeze billows in from clouds and ocean sides but I do
Not
Trust it. A car engine coughs emphysemic through the bedroom curtains,
Do
I have a disease now? Someone is tapping on door; I squat and refuse to answer.
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I wish I could write as well as you
Good work.