Number Eleven

I desire to write another poem.

I can feel it on the tip of my fingers and tongue.

I hope it’s not a false alarm.

It’s five in the morning.

My cell phone hasn’t rung in decades.

No one ever calls because they know I’ll just end up cutting them off.

This is number eleven.

I thought I might possibly be on a roll.

Thing is I may have jumped the gun or worse yet swallowed the barrel and pulled the trigger.

I wonder if I’ll ever experience physical intimacy again.

I don’t even mean sex or whatever the equivalent of sex is in the twenty-first century.

I’d settle for holding hands and maybe sliding into first by the end of the date.

Soon I will lie down on a sleeping bag on my mother’s floor and close my eyes.

When I wake up it will be around three in the afternoon and I’ll have accomplished nothing.

Truth is I don’t like guns and even if I owned one I wouldn’t be able to afford the bullets.

Charles Cicirella

8/8/14