Again? (so many Mondays)

Is this Monday again? I wasn’t looking. I wasn’t paying attention. I walked right into it, writing while walking, and sulking while my feet were still moving, and she was above me, in thin air.

I ordered roses for her from the florist. They sent her lilies. How did they know? Were they looking through my window when my face pinched in pain? Did they read my letters and follow my halting steps?

I wish this wasn’t a true story. I wish it was a horror that people read, dog-earing the pages to the ghastly parts they want to show their partners later. I wish it was fiction in the purest sense

At what point did I understand that there was hope? What was elusive, dodging me, and mocking me, is at arm’s length. That is a good deal closer than in my youth, giving up the dreams for thralldom.

Pleasure is fleeting. But it returns, I know it, somewhere around Thursday of the month, a refreshing gust in the middle of swelter.

Slaying my dragons

My friend hangs his head, listening to me.
Nightmares? Not again. You write about
Night terrors and bad dreams. Again.

They are part of my life. I am trying to
face them down to battle the dragons.
I miss sleeping fully. I am exhausted.

You are obsessed. You don’t want to banish
your dragons at all. They are far more interesting
than real life ever hopes to be.

I twitch. Get out of my head.
I am in terror every time I close my eyes
knowing that sleep is imminent.

You are a fraud.You love it.
You love having something to talk about.
All poets are egotistical.

The pot calls the kettle what?
I shift positions in my seat.
My legs are restless. I wave at the waitress.

Yes, I am a poet too, but we are not
alike. I am in it for the art. You are
in it for blood. You are in it for the bodily fluids.

Silence. Facial twitch. My eyes dart.
So? Haven’t you ever heard of
sacrifice for art? What made you so smart?

I read one or two of your poems.
I saw your heart. You are a bit of a coward
Yet you jump back into the fray. Every day. 5 a.m.

Sometimes I sleep until 6. I bite my lip.
My hand twitches on the table and I thump
my fingertips and nails in a staccato beat.

I have a pill that might help you.

It’s not a bad thing.

No, not bad.

I thought others might feel less alone.

But what will you do if the nightmares stop?

Up there

Every love a mother can give
each moment we live
your Sicilian eyes
in the old pictures
with their longing
make me a little crazy lately
but I will try and be the one
to turn the tides to peace

Am I that strong? The
warrior I said I would be–
at times
I am a mouse
lost in my own maze
the lab shut up for the night
and
no cheese
no little bell to ring
no point

but I
will press on–struggling
to find out why I trudge through
(harder than it has to be)
until I cry out I am here–
I have made it–
Mother

Do you remember
you said I never would
accomplish much
I know
(you had your doubts)
but I hoped
I pulled
I strained, and
perhaps
I have made you smile
somewhere up there

Day trip

Stumbling through town
I catch up on all y’all
with care, to not miss the new
from each one I saw daily
a decade ago–
the coffee shop perking, and
the dress shop showing some leg
through windows, glare
from the risen sun just an hour before.
Turning your head, as
I peek through

It is okay, I can live
without the party–
did I grow up finally?
Still caring, but also carrying
post-50 blues, reds, and greens.
I smile, ending my visit.
It is okay, that you exclude me.
I like me.
The light is burning, and
the cat by the fire stirs the soup
every half hour

Weekend in bed

It does not feel like Saturday
I missed a day–
was it not just Monday? Fresh
and dew-y
Tuesday and Wednesday, and
especially Thursday
are a wash. I
do not remember Friday
at all.
Beethoven, why
are you so good to me?
Bernstein–let us spend
the rest of the weekend
together.