We’ll Be Somewhere When I’m Done

I emerge from enveloping shadow and hear
my feet slap the pavement, feel my breathing
deep and even. Brownstones whiz by
my fluttering eyes and I recall the last time
I whizzed this effortlessly was forty years ago.
A rumbling regiment of cavalry cuts off my route
at Lark Street. Smart in their dark blue uniforms
trimmed in gold, black hats sit jauntily upon their heads
just as the riders perch with élan upon cantering steeds
that match their headwear. The echo of this mounted
all-baritone chorus out of a John Ford western
follows me north. That’s when I see him again,
standing on the corner, at the corner of my eye,
and spy him through the open doors of a UPS truck.

Turning west toward our old place, I sense his back
quickly turned toward mine. A bus grumbles by
and I catch a new aroma, its exhaust like coffee
from the kitchen. I snort, lift my head from the pillow,
realizing with pounding heart, I have run my covers off
in dreaming my first dream in months, or at least
first I can remember. When I slap my feet upon
the cold true floor, I realize I do not like your
night-time dreams. To me they lack meaning,
a beginning or an end. I prefer my waking ones,
like this one, in which you and I may not know
where I’m going, but I’m pretty sure
we’ll be somewhere when I’m done.

An unfortunately true retelling of one of my fever dreams from last week. In truth, I do not dream much, at least anything I remember upon awakening. But if this foolish thing was any indication of what I’m missing, maybe I’m better off. At least the colors were nice, though.


Writer’s Lament


Today I felt like I emptied out
my whole damn bag, reached in
and grabbed nothing but burlap.
This happens from time to time,
but it occurs more and more
these days. These nights.

They’re the empty windows I see
as the train of fictive thought
blows past me in the dark.
No faces, no people, no stories,
just a dizzying necklace of  lights
with no illumination.

We all go through these long nights
of emptiness, no feeling, no sense.
And just before I throw the hopeless,
helpless sack against the wall,
I felt this thing stuck in the weave…

Here’ s my (hopefully final) sickbed poem, a 100-word Drabble, in response to a Word Bank prompt from my friend, the talented Kellie Elmore. Kellie said I could use any or all of these words — train – burlap – fiction – pearls – vertigo — or use them as inspiration. As usual, I took the biggest bite. Free Write Friday with the flu, baby. Don’t try this at home.