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Poetry – Untitled Fragment

February 21, 2012

Home has settled into a dreary march.

I stand over my desk, ready to make a move

but remain stuck, photo-like.

The quiescence bloats into a physical sensation:

my every motion slides

through this warm, curdled cream.

Vibrant life shines right outside. I stare at it,

dumbstruck, like a moth at the sun.

Voices of visitors next door remind me

how wonderfully tedious it all can be.

But I can tell they’ll never slip like me

from their everyday distractions.

The dad is tormented by his mobile phone,

unable to even look up and the children

nag mother to tears. All they talk about is home and

the birds nest that bwip, bwip, bwips

outside their bedroom window.

They’re intoxicated with the inconsequential.

Thank God they leave so I can be alone

With my desk and my books and my

interrogation of the silence.

I’ve read every epic from Homer to Hemmingway.

The urge to leave still hounds me like a habit

but I cut out its throat. It lives like a devoiced dog,

still barking at everyone’s heels, but only

the joke of the neighbourhood.

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© TALKING TO MYSELF THROUGH POETRY

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