Shut In

It rains. The leaves are turning, soon to fall. The world goes
About its business as I sit inside, intent on getting back to it.
Four weeks of watching out my window, shadowed, wincing,
Wishing I was well enough to rise and walk among the semiconscious
Hordes have been enough. There's nothing here, as I had thought
Perhaps there'd be, to write about. Each day's the same. Each
Passes, stripped of stimulus, and everything I read provokes, not
Thought, but anger at my torpor. My words, sparks struck
By my senses, soar and flash like fireworks, but those of others
Clog my mind. They're like cholesterol. In two more weeks, they
Say I'll caper. Will the sun be back again? Will any leaves
Remain on trees in brilliant yellows, oranges, reds, to celebrate
When I'm released? I don't suppose it matters much. I won't feel
Less liberated if they're on the ground.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
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Written on 2018-10-12 at 21:03

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