Under
cover of night as day passes over us like a funeral shroud. I watch you from an
expanse of perpetual sorrow and I’m reminded that recognizing beauty still
ticks in the bones of this old dog.
You
tell me my poetry honors you when truth be told I’m so grateful to share my
gifts with a muse of your hallowed stature.
I
know you’re paying attention and that wakes me up more than any Mickey Mouse
alarm clock ever could.
Listening
to the music between the droplets of rain on the sleeve of your summer gown, I
desire to see you beneath the moonlight on the open prairie.
I’ve
tried slowing down for my friends and loved ones, but I still discover myself alone
because an artists’ sacrifice is never done.
Moral
superiority is for the circus clowns miming for laughs under a big top of mediocrity
and methadone addiction.
I
won’t deny I’m a hologram of my former self and still I pursue my appetites
like a bulimic looking forward to their next big blow out.
We’re
all accounting for time in some fashion or other that we believe is unique to
our past, present or future situations.
I’m
not one for the beach because I cannot stand the grains of sand getting stuck
between my toes and in the crack of my bum.
You
help me widen the search of my soul as I pretend I’m Odysseus because as
wandering heroes go I believe it’s best to go back to the source and fight the
temptation to buy the cliff notes.
I’m
getting sleepy, but I won’t rest until this poem is finished and the episode of
“NYPD Blue” I’m watching is over.
You’re
a lasting reminder of just how much of an impression a person can make on
another person even and especially when the world is burning all around us.
Charles Cicirella
7/8/20
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