On Those, That Which, Remain Unsaid... But Obvious Poem by RIC BASTASA

i am about to sleep.
my eyes droop like an old man
defective spinal cord restless on the furrowed muscles
the arm lifeless, the head bowed,
the hips on painful joints,
i couldn't take the thoughts of
dry river beds and what the women
who want to wash their old clothes
could have done without the
usual running rivers,
and i ask myself what's next to the
pebbles, and the scorching sun at midday,
what's deep down under the
dead moss, the fish
without their usual flesh,
the bones all white and
sharp, what's next to the warmest
day, when all the laundry women
have gone away?
yes, what's next to us
dichotomous concepts
of tradition?
what is next to these flailing legs,
those rusty earrings not made of
gold?
what is next to the coldness of our
words? our selves on arms raised
wanting an eventual surrender
those kept and remaining
unsaid.