Those Catholic Boyhood Blues
I swig no crafted microbrew,
no bottle sleek with booze:
I still know where my house-keys are;
I haven't lost my shoes:
I stay awake past four a m,
until the morning news:
I've got those insomniacal
twelve-step hopelessly romantic
Catholic boyhood blues.
I'm watching the detectives, but
I'm awfully short on clues,
a member of the human race
who hasn't paid his dues,
a troubadour with much to gain
and not a lot to lose:
I've got those up-all-night
unrequitably misdirected
Catholic boyhood blues.
I list my daily gratitudes
and mind my Ps and Qs:
the world invites me to a dance,
and how can I refuse?
There is a balm in Gilead
for every bump and bruise,
even for those slumber-starved
celibate ambidextrous
Catholic boyhood blues.
I'm not a poet laureate,
Day Lewis or Ted Hughes,
but guzzle coffee by the quart
and write while others snooze:
a solid week of restful sleep,
that's something I could use!
I've got those climbing-the-wall
sober-sonneteering love-addicted
Catholic boyhood blues.
Poetry by Thomas D

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Written on 2021-03-21 at 19:59




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