(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.