The Sin of Listening, #41

Intruder, intruder, snuck
into my bedroom,
into my headroom, bellow
lies and madness, squawk sadness,
imagine me some other
life, some other incessant
courtship, one a bit taller,
muscular, more athletic,
someone name Nate or Rita,
some life lived outside boredom,
suburban back yards, morning
sat on the back porch rocking
back and forth. Is this a Jay
I see before me, Robin
twitterpating, chickadee
chasing down a future mate.
Is this a life? A life worth
living? Weren’t we to be Kings
of kingdoms of destiny,
spiritual masters, at least students,
more than seeds of this body?
Is this a herring I see
before me, a seagull, geese
on loan from the colder north?
They know the ocean, consume
the fish who call my name, call
me to swim from this cold perch
on this back porch. Intruder,
enemy of the spirit
I portray. My head lies here
heavy on this pillow, stuffed
beneath blankets, unwilling
to rise today. Sing to me
false promiser, if no one
is coming to carry me
off, to migrate my anger,
to mitigate my longing,
sing to me anyway, song
enough to rouse me from bed,
lift me to my puny porch
to smile broad false smiles.



A day is not done, until it's filled with words.

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