Red Wheelbarrow Poets
Poem of the Week 1/17/2017
Can It Be the Weekend, Again?
The trash-filled rush to question
mocked the force of life’s
Am I tough enough for the marathon?
Each narrative in my head has a terminal
with a thousand disappointments pulling in,
and phrases, winking with praises,
A full-length masterpiece seems more fictional,
and a vanishing point puts perspective
that goes above and beyond arithmetic.
Now, each day I wake to a lot of pressure
to flip the hourglass by my bed.
There is no substitute for an amulet
to deceive yourself.
In the waiting booth
with two black suitcases
smelling of cough syrup and bleach,
I search for safety
when my face gets hot —
high tech, low voltage,
visible light heavier than helium —
to fill the spectered lot.
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