Silence huddles around me like an
old blanket babies cling to for security, and
outside my window darkness prevents me
rom escaping into visual distractions;
the bed springs sign a lonely moan as I
turn to gaze at the emptiness beside me.
The shapes and images rust in my memory
Like an old tin can cast out along the roadside,
forming patterns that I must hopelessly follow.
The image never alters as the voice
cries out, but is never heard, and all hope is
lost while the second hand forebodingly revolves.
Off in the distance, a bird in solitaire
Longs for his mate and hollow shadows
Of yesterday’s dreams are left without purpose,
And meaning is a forgotten promise that
Crickets sing when the night is still and
Those who toil by day sleep not alone.
July 1981
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