The last few days
I have been beating the alarm,
waking up much before it goes off.
If you wake up really, really early, is it insomnia still?
I pick up last night’s unfinished story from the bed-side
for tonight there might be a different side, a different bed, a different room, house, city, scape.
As I turn on the radio at dawn,
the jockeys talk less and play better music‘cause no one’s listening,
so I can gorge on unfinished tales.
But the morning comes
the music is suffused with coffee-smells and cat-calls.
I negotiate a quick, shower
a cool lift in a cold car to a cool corridor – that happens to be my workplace.
Too much air-conditioning condensing cerebral cells.
I actually, really, honestly spent an hour yesterday lying on concrete behind the parking lot,
looking at the city-sky-dwellers.
This peripatetic rhythm is becoming a habit.
There is a hint of a speck of dust -the kind that speak of passage of time.
Skull & Bones?
falling rain and
un-interrupted access to the internet.
Or wait...don't I have all of these already...
Then maybe I'm making stories in my head,
because I know I long for that
clustrophobic lack of space,
of no green spaces,
of falling rain and
interrupted access to the internet.