The Man in the Iron Mind

I don’t think I want to live here anymore.

The gravel outside my door is an unfinished sentence.

The creaking floor is heavy with doubt

Piled up like teetering stacks of books –

And throwaway books at that.

No classics here, no Brothers K or Moby D or Remembrance Of.

The stairs always lead to the same places

And those places carry the same old knowledge.

Curled up on this mattress is like wrapping myself in newspaper

Under a bridge or in a cardboard box

Not least for the lack of anyone next to me.

All those dreams are cracked pavement at someone else’s feet

Left behind to bleach and surge with the changing weather.

The old sun glints off the windows of the houses outside my window

And the tree is no shelter but it lets slip

The dogwoods of weariness and lulls me into a stupor that winds down slowly.

The non-tick-tock of a digital clock is a mortal reminder of the one thing

That ties me down here under these lumbering timbers and red bricks.

Sometimes when I smile it slips sadly frowning

Unshared with anything but the warm upholstery of the rocker

That holds me up off  the wooden slats of the floor.

The dinner dishes languish on the kitchen counter waiting

For a cleaning I have no inclination to provide

Because I should  have left here years ago.

This entry was posted in Poetry by bgm1969. Bookmark the permalink.

About bgm1969

This blog is updated by a guy who’s overweight, silly, Liberal, spiritual rather than religious, infatuated with beauty and grace, musically blessed, and always changing.

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