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Such is the hour into which I must rise,
when a lonely cat purrs and licks my face,
the cold, bare floor assaults my feet,
I recall the ancient past, and feeling young,
impervious to blindness, deafness and numb,
not staring at the sink with bloodshot eyes,
not sleeping through the alarm and struggling to rise
above the grassy green slope that contains my family name,
where more weeds than flowers are being brought to life,
crowding each other out and degrading the light,
turning the grassy slope into a mountain of dung.
But I leave the dung to do what it will,
let the cat's rough tongue exfoliate my chin,
pull on some socks to keep my feet warm,
wrap myself in the light of youth's dumb glow,
oblivious to derision and the white in my hair,
staring in the mirror at the shape of my eye,
not sleeping enough but enough to get by
the booby trapped charms hidden in the grass,
the bodies of relatives and the stink of their flesh,
arguing still, over Thanksgivings long past,
claiming they did the most, and spent the most cash.
Thomas Dyer
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Comments about this poem (Day 15,843; Hour No.4
by
Thomas Dyer
) |
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Thomas Dyer
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Marieta Maglas
(12/29/2009 12:58:00 PM) |
wrap myself in the light of youth's dumb glow
nice story poem
10
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Marieta Maglas
(12/29/2009 12:58:00 PM) |
wrap myself in the light of youth's dumb glow
nice story poem
10
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