There are times when my poetic mind
Is flat broke for inspiration.
Life presses in too tightly
And there is hardly room to think,
Let alone create with rhyme and rhythm.
The guys come home hungry from work
How can their mother refuse to cook them food?
They look right fagged out from
Building small bits of paradise.
In someone else’s yard.
And the girls need things from the store
Mostly they need my money
I think. Or my car to get there.
Girl stuff. They don’t want to be seen
By the boy – a classmate at the counter.
And I let them use me, knowing that
Too soon they will be gone. My house
Will echo with empty walls
I will prepare food for a full table
And no one will come to eat the leftovers.
So for now, I will rest my mind.
I will gather memories,
Set them in store rooms till some time,
Winter descended, time suspended,
I will work on them;
Knit them to a cozy blanket
To cover myself in the wonder my life has been.