Wednesday, September 23, 2009
Faster than anyone better than me
It comes in under the closed door,
through the window screen,
pushing in under my eyelids,
into my nose, my ears.
It's getting in,
like a hard rain,
bouncing off bricks and doors,
its drops bending in their flight,
coming in under your umbrella,
to hit your shirt, your collar, your face.
I talk with myself to let it out,
because it's built up,
scaring people who can't hear
the other side of the conversation.
I try to stop and I can't;
it has to come out.
So, I reach for the bottle.
I reach for a book.
I reach for a game,
to get another hour
to chase it out, into a fantasy,
a construct where it can run
for another hour.
Another hour that work piles up
needing to be done.
Because when I touch something important it
or it whispers, which is worse.
I breathe and put up my hands
to struggle with it,
and I push it away and remember to
keep the pen moving.