Sunday, May 8, 2011

Last day of eighty-nine

(based on suggestions from @ernmalleyscat and @realnixwilliams)

Ancient smell of kitchen sponge

and grey microwaved potatoes

creeps in as the light falls cold.

Tiny points of temazepan loom large

they are white in the middle

like the centre of sleep and the

edges of dying. Perchance to

push back waking into a blank.

Four score years and ten

bandied about roughly like Hallmark

calligraphy. Cardboard sentiments

string along caravan venetians.

Close the blinds; they shuffle

like a mortal coil of birthdays

and children and so many forgotten

terrors in the night. Dreams will come.

Bed folds down. Mattress has a

permanent kink, like the cat

who got his tail caught in the screen door.

It fits along the groove of spine.

Tomorrow is a wish and a counter meal;

a child, a grandchild, a side of chips.

Sleep falls like a hammer and

the smell will be gone by morning.


Today’s poem is based on suggestions from two peeps:

  • @realnixwilliams: “living in a caravan.”
  • @ernmalleyscat: “going to sleep on the night before your 90th birthday.”

Today marks my 90th #poemsbyrequest. That’s rather a lot for as many days.

I’ve decided I’m going to get to 100 and then give it a rest for a while, aside from – you know, special occasions and offers I can’t refuse. So stand warned – you’ve got 10 days left if you want to suggest something.


ernmalleyscat said...

Very sad and beautiful.
On my Dad's 90th we treated him to a flight in a Tiger Moth that he used to fly 60 years before. He was like a little kid the night before.

Quadelle said...

I wonder, at 90, what the wish would entail.

I particularly like the part about similar kinks.

Anna said...

At 90, I'm pretty sure my wish would be for a really big whiskey.