poem 3, spring 2022

The air is busy with ebullient chats

Teas swirl with the latest milk,

Musings trickle their way to my ears,

Which sag down my bright green silk

I am treated to the energy of many

Engulfed by the lacking of one

A distant hum barricades my head

I stare at the wood grain table, as glum

As the waitress who tends to me,

But worse, for her shift will cease

She’ll collapse into a lover’s glee

Tonight, while my version, swallowing pleas

Wisps and echoes are the milk

In my fading tea, they snake about

Insidiously; they know my ilk

The weary and always wicked minds

Who’ve fought a dozen medium battles

A million tiny and one large, dullness winds

Itself around my core and yanks the attles

Even deeper, down and down until

I scurry about the bottom bits,

As mobile as I’ve ever been,

And gleeful as the rubbish hits.