Day 84 – Where the Cattails Grow

Where will you be tomorrow
if the feeling finds you out,
discovers you’ve been on the run
for too long?

Will you be running back
to where the cattails grow,
to the falling snow,
to your quietest moments
wrapped up and
thrown into the sea?

Will you give my best
when you get there,
to the places I can’t go;

will you be there tomorrow
where the cattails grow?

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Day 41 – An Awful Long Way

I wonder how many
suicides
are the accidental result
of exhaustion

Took a nap
on a train track
a windowsill

Sometimes I can’t help
but rest my eyes
a few seconds
on the road
home from work…

Maybe nobody wants
to die
we just get more rest
than we ask for

Maybe a little sleep
could go an awful
long way

Year 2: Day 142 – You Look Exhausted

8 o’clock on a Thursday, baby,
you look exhausted.

Baby, I always look exhausted.
Don’t call me baby.
I am exhausted.

8 o’clock on a Thursday, honey,
don’t you have work in the morning?

Don’t call me honey and
are you concerned for that?
What’s a short-term man like you
got to mind about me?

They say I got defense mechanisms
but how about if I really was
just tired-
would you send me off to bed,
would you tuck me in-
baby, what could you do
about an exhausted woman?

(Tell her she looks it)

Day 269 – This Poem Has Nothing To Do With Mesothelioma

When the words aren’t coming out right
’cause you didn’t get enough sleep last night
and you can’t give it your best
because all you wanna do is rest
and you’re not particularly deep
because all you can think of is sleep
and you plunk down a lousy rhyme
counting the hours until bedtime
and you’re just puttin’ in your dues
’til you can catch a snooze
and you don’t care if it’s crap
’cause you could really use a nap,
when it’s as good as it’s gonna get
is this damn poem over yet-

mesothelioma,
I wanna be in a coma.

Day 194 – Everything I Got

“I saw your car out front last night,
but you must not have been home” she says.

I was asleep by seven.

“Are you alright?” she asks,
but how do I even explain
a hard day’s worth of fun?

I never complain,
but at six fifty-nine
when my head plunks down
just for a few minutes rest
I’m still trying to figure out
how it can be

that a day of dodgeball and friendship bracelets
chicken dances and cha-cha slides,
strong-arming sealed-tight thermoses
applying band-aids and tying shoes
rock-paper-scissors and hangman

standing as temporary mother
to a flock of twenty-four

can take everything I got.

And I’m still trying to figure out
at 1am, awakened,
propelled by unfulfilled duty
to write one more, one more poem

how everything I got is just enough
to prove I got more than that.