Twelve Hours To Go
by Sy Roth
leisure moves in to sleep with me on my sofa
a companion like a homeless, long-lost cousin.
days stretch out in indolence and tossed timepieces
resting among a slew of colorful ties.
refrigerator beckons me.
in a lethargic, ass-scratching stretch
conduct an archeological dig through its
slimy ham, hardened bread, and moldy cheese.
today I will move some dirt
from a patch looking askew
my Leaning Tower spied out of the corner of my eye-reroute the edging,
replace the stakes,
weed the small plot
and sweep the refuse repeatedly into a black garbage bag.
thirty minutes of diversion.
pungent, earthy smells follow me into the house.
took up where I left off in my novel
the assassin within transported me there.
no longer feeling manipulated by authors,
I journey with them.
Will I transport today?
my head becomes a wrecking ball,
weebling/ wobbling
stabbing at my chest with a receding chin
train-wrecking snores stir me.
the sun rips a crimson streak across my left cheek.
my Madeleine,
dried cookies and sounds of imagined, tapping keys
fellow travelers in my somnambulism.
the overused delete button
leaves a trail of incoherent words
and a discordant rhapsody sings a morose song
in a jumbled day-- twelve hours to go.
Gyroscope Review 51
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