Wednesday, 4 March 2009


my children eat paste and playdough
in their happy corner
while i struggle to keep from eating shit

instead listening to avoid
as a smoke-filled voice in my ears some nights
sends me looking inward
his music so familiar after hundreds of plays
i long to ask the deeper whys of composition
he's as close as hours
as distant as century's turn
the lead elbow of queries pinned
neatly tied with a white sash

the children are sleeping, now
sweating in their dreams
the peace i've ached for all day
and i can barely keep from nuzzling them awake with kisses
as i wander back from the bathroom

this wooden chair threatens
to grow roots
and draws me back
dimming the screen and swaying
until the moments blend
and darkness can no longer be held at bay
by podcasts and YouTube
distraction upon distraction disrupting
this inner life

a life that could surely use a taste of paste
maybe once
in a while