Saturday, July 30, 2016

Robert Verdon, #223, waiting to wake

tumbling down into low gear and low country
that sea-line in the distance
heads full of what we will do, chips and real fish,
magic encounters leading to new lives, eternal lives,
magical cities driven through as we hug the two-lane
highway round spirituous bends, heading lower, down
the coast as the saying goes, engine roaring with
excitement startling the piebald cows, scattering dust
from the verge occasionally as we play I Spy or is it me
at 24 playing it on my own, living on in the dream world that
has been my lifelong sanctuary and prison, so vivid it seems
more real than the real world with its jobs and associated garbage,
holiday or quest, I do not know, the sun is a red glow through a wine bottle,
lying on rippled white sand and waiting for my father, waiting for
my 20th birthday, waiting to leave home, waiting waiting waiting
checkmating myself, these days so often I think what is the point where
is there to go I am too old have achieved nothing a hair-spring without a
watch and they don’t use them any more anyway, other times I might be
at the centre of a revolution, all of it is imaginary nonsense I should have
been a plumber at least money to do what I want, not other point to existence in
this godforsaken why why why are we waiting waiting for death waiting for
forgetfulness waiting to wake


  1. It all seems like a handful of dust but I think 'achievements' feel the same way. Nothing trumps a sense of mortality.

  2. Robbie, this fine poem...I'd really like to hear you read it aloud someday!


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