| It doesn’t do me any good to dream of a good game
Or to get depressed about it
Or to say it aloud or instead be silent
Or to portray it in poems laid out like a fan of Canasta cards,
All alike on one side, over and over again,
While we’re always freezing the pile
Until one can meld and go out, then count the cost.
I might as well have drowned in drool last night
As to get hung-up in this hapless countless dream where
I’ve fallen down the stairs running like a dog in his sleep,
And into a fan blade in the final moment of the dream
That chops me up like lettuce until I wake wetly,
Then I meld and ache because I find I can’t go out.
rcs.
Current draft: 2/25/2010
Created on 2/20/2010 10:51 AM |
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Abandon hope, all ye who enter here! (At least put on your socks and pants.)