24

Stealing Lines

Hour 24 becomes
the kaleidoscope poem
that I couldn’t write in hour 17.
The light rays penetrating the canopy
become the spokes of the kaleidoscope
turning fractals of
green
yellow
warmth
on the forest floor.
As I write the last poem
the cat puddles on my legs.
I feel the release of the pieces
of pens as my mind starts to shut down.
In a parallel universe my poems
would all be crystal clear and understandable
not a surreal morass of inertia.
I run away into the circus of minds
that are trying to stay awake.
I can do a full marathon
because I am retired
but do they make sense?
No routine is scary but maybe one day
will make sense.
Words are a blizzard.
I gather music and images.
I disconnect logic.
I hope there will be colors.
The cat purrs me back awake.
I write about turquoise bucket lists.
In my dream poem
trees have teeth in early morning.
I fade in the 24th hour
Is my cat real or myth,
do I feel his weight?
I hope there are clouds today
I will drink iced tea.
There are two crows but are elephants real? Creativity is a canyon.
I disolve myself in the 24th hour into a mine fog.