Untitled

Its 2.00am
my teenage daughter
is eating ice cream in the lounge
eyes glued to America's next top dancing modeling singing
weight losing freak show zombies

Its 2.15am
and you toss turn
mumbling consternation
into the warmth of the blankets

The vague curve of your spine
a masters carefully sketched
precursor to the painting
you are.

I would touch you
but you are beyond
me

I am
the furrow in your brow
tension in your neck
knotted muscles of your shoulder blades

I am never quite the answer
often the question
an unknown element in any situation

the random factor that cannot be relied upon
to play my part.


But if you ask us over a glass of wine
we will chime in time
a harmony of affirmation
that ours is the perfect union

The one poets write of
the one dreamers strive for

Its 2.20am
and I am wondering if I can
ever really resolve all the
sharp edged failings I have
accrued like interest on a loan

I examine shame
disillusion
and their clammering minions
from all sides

flipping my Rubik's cube of self
till the colors align

Here
the vertical red of rage

there
the shaded contemplation of blue


Its 3.00am
and the dog eats itself
in ravenous grunted self destruction

You have calmed
the nights
rapid eye dance
over

I listen as America releases
my child from its media thrall
and she trundles off to bed
a shadow

a Grey wraith

another color
on my cube.