Sunday Scribblings: Hi, My Name Is ...
Happy Sunday Scribblings!
This poem was more a free association exercise, so it is what it is, I guess. All I know is that the Red Sox have clinched a playoff spot--all is right in my world!
Looking forward to reading your posts this week.
Hello, My Name Is …
the key in the door lock,
the hallway you’ve walked through a-hundred-and-one times
thinking OK, this is it. This is my life.
You stir in the middle of the night,
turning to the window where the pulled-back curtain reveals
a flood light triggered by your next-door neighbor's
predawn gym trip.
You can turn away but the light always finds you,
it shines over closed eyelids
though you are not there, not really.
You drift through the morning,
your hand already gripping a phantom steering wheel
on the same ride you’ve taken for years.
All that while, in the well of dust under the television,
beneath the mirror’s dirty reflection, you are there at the surface
crowding the house. You at the door sliding the key in the lock
—past the hallway, past the hardwood's creek,
the relentless floor—cannot guarantee you are who you say you are.
Your name is, one foot out the door.
This poem was more a free association exercise, so it is what it is, I guess. All I know is that the Red Sox have clinched a playoff spot--all is right in my world!
Looking forward to reading your posts this week.
Hello, My Name Is …
the key in the door lock,
the hallway you’ve walked through a-hundred-and-one times
thinking OK, this is it. This is my life.
You stir in the middle of the night,
turning to the window where the pulled-back curtain reveals
a flood light triggered by your next-door neighbor's
predawn gym trip.
You can turn away but the light always finds you,
it shines over closed eyelids
though you are not there, not really.
You drift through the morning,
your hand already gripping a phantom steering wheel
on the same ride you’ve taken for years.
All that while, in the well of dust under the television,
beneath the mirror’s dirty reflection, you are there at the surface
crowding the house. You at the door sliding the key in the lock
—past the hallway, past the hardwood's creek,
the relentless floor—cannot guarantee you are who you say you are.
Your name is, one foot out the door.
Comments
LOL.
You captured a feeling very well.
it shines over closed eyelids
though you are not there, not really."
Awesome...
Very nice :)
And really, life is pretty good--except for the 5 a.m. morning routine!
it shines over closed eyelids" - beautiful lines! i really enjoyed this poem as it resonates in my life as well.
and a "predawn gym trip" - that's brutal.
Or, you could write another "Key" poem.
In fact, a whole book of "Key" poems would be a really interesting idea!