from the very first glimpse of world that greets you every sunday,
tuesday
or perhaps thursday morning
the thought of an ordinary day will not dawn upon you
for every day, to you, will be as good as your first
and as bad as your last
life is your dress rehearsal
and its creatures are your cast
seated at the breakfast table
alone
with alphabet cereal
swirling in milk
avidly spelling out the names
of all the galaxies
and daydreaming
of sleeping under the stars
daytime means schooltime
which is synonymous with
underpaid teachers
and high-pitched gossip
and boys with peach fuzz
who never bothered remembering your name.
the cafeteria is a habitat
which houses many
different species
of human
including the undercover poet
scribbling on a grease-stained
napkin :
the ballad of a sad child.
upon a steady return
to the undercover's residence
three things occur:
his fountain pen is quenched
his tears dried
and of course, a bitter realization
that his day had been most banal.
so once again the poet sets off
footsteps patting against textured carpet
your shaky palms
grabbing layers of soft duvet
dragging it across the empty floor
through the hallways
and out the front door
under the stars
you lay and weep: safe forever
and fully submerged in the calm of the night
forever is not a lifetime
it seems
but the time it takes
for the sun to win over the moon
in a fight
Jul 16, 2013
Jul 16, 2013 at 4:04 AM UTC
from the very first glimpse of world that greets you every sunday,
tuesday
or perhaps thursday morning
the thought of an ordinary day will not dawn upon you
for every day, to you, will be as good as your first
and as bad as your last
life is your dress rehearsal
and its creatures are your cast
seated at the breakfast table
alone
with alphabet cereal
swirling in milk
avidly spelling out the names
of all the galaxies
and daydreaming
of sleeping under the stars
daytime means schooltime
which is synonymous with
underpaid teachers
and high-pitched gossip
and boys with peach fuzz
who never bothered remembering your name.
the cafeteria is a habitat
which houses many
different species
of human
including the undercover poet
scribbling on a grease-stained
napkin :
the ballad of a sad child.
upon a steady return
to the undercover's residence
three things occur:
his fountain pen is quenched
his tears dried
and of course, a bitter realization
that his day had been most banal.
so once again the poet sets off
footsteps patting against textured carpet
your shaky palms
grabbing layers of soft duvet
dragging it across the empty floor
through the hallways
and out the front door
under the stars
you lay and weep: safe forever
and fully submerged in the calm of the night
forever is not a lifetime
it seems
but the time it takes
for the sun to win over the moon
in a fight
june 17 2013
Request permission to use this poem