Monday, February 17, 2020


Fantasy is to dread as
Stimulant to exhaustion,
As drink to excess caution,

Alleviating the worst
Symptoms briefly, for a cost.
My workman father would fix

A thermos of hot coffee
The size of a small cannon
To take to work each morning.

He always came back empty.
He would stay wired all evening.
He would sleep four or five hours.

On a Sunday afternoon
You could find him on the couch,
Snoring slightly, on his back,

His eyelids weirdly ajar
As if caught by a snapshot,
Mid blink, and yet fluttering.

His naps. The man loved his naps,
Whenever he could get them.
He never quite lost the house,

Thanks to my mother’s nursing
Career and frugal habits,
Thanks to his helpful parents,

But the future was always
Claws out and racing toward him,
Chasing him into the night.

On the couch he could daydream
Of wealth until he drifted
Into another short nap.

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