Sleepwalking On A Shirley Sunday Poem by Susan Lacovara

I have outgrown this bed, this house, this town
These cloudy days that follow sleepless nights
Minutes, hours, days, weeks
Of wandering foggy alleys of asphalt thoughts
Falling into crevices no one cares to fill
The mirror, passed, grabs hold of my hand
I wrestle away from a face I do not recognize
With her wrinkled brow and dimly lit eyes
She like a straphanging stranger
On a stagnant subway car
Will be forgoten, by the next assigned stop

Morning coffee, bitter, but swallowed the same
As when I, then, gained it's refreshing jolt
Springboarding me into the deep end
Of chlorine clear choices, a pool of promises
Now I shuffle the kitchen cold tiles
In slippered feet towards the daily headlines
Of a world gone mad
Swearing it doesn't directly effect me
In my muddled puddles of pushing on
The old gray cat looks to me for comfort
He, too, searching for a new place to sleep
Tired, from prowling the empty corners
You, not long ago, and not nearly long enough
Once occupied

How much rain can a cloud hold
Until too heavy, explodes
Winter long, but no Spring skips her date
To dance
It is only this provides a purposeful placing
Of one foot in front of the other
I had ballerina toes, just months ago
Now I walk in freshly poured cement
With eyes that stayed up way too late
My soul wrapped in a tattered bathrobe
Looking back on the brilliance of 'then'
While sifting through the laundry of 'here and now'
On automatic overload
All while sleepwalking on a Shirley Sunday
Exhausted and exploding to leave