Here's this week's Divorced Dad poem.
A Divorced Dad Plucks
Out a Nose Hair
An hour, maybe two,
Since the alarm slightly coughed.
But he’s not moving.
A to-do list
Sits folded on a desk, some ten feet way.
And thin-crept dream pours into dream:
A face of a childhood love with their mouth torn and
missing,
Then, struggling to move his possessions out of a casually
crumbling house.
With one final effort,
He guides the loom which shapes the scenes.
But it’s still wrong.
Still wrong. A freckled, curvy
Sculptor enters. She smells like cinnamon. They make
Love, unhurried and sure. With
an awareness of the frail and the glory.
And then she dies. So soon.
She’s stricken with cancer,
And the dream flashes to a dimly lit bed,
Then the footnote of darkness.
And he’s awake.
A chorus of sobs.
Not ready to start.
A widower of fantasy.
As a reflex,
He reaches with his right thumb and index finger,
Finds a nostril,
And pulls. Hard. Sharp.
No time to reflect or stop.
A crack of sensate shivers echo,
And a long, twisted, black hair is collected.
He smiles. Breathes again, ragged but alert. All is reset.
He lifts the covers. He finds his feet.
No comments:
Post a Comment