Cup of coffee.
Loose clothing.
Silent radio for once.
Old computer in my lap.
What am I doing?
Oh, not much:

stealing the sun’s fire.
Cradling a lost mother’s child.
Dancing in my head
for pennies thrown
at my feet by an old man
years after he did the same.

Making it up as I go along:
this poetry, this bald repetition
of words. This verse
unlike the last one, I hope.
This is what’s left to me
beyond coffee and praise;
beyond me and within me at once,
or part of some entity beyond me.

Now I can’t bear the itchiness
of my clothes or anything else
within my reach, so
I will drink my coffee
before it cools and get up,
slowly, putting down the computer
and then picking it up to return it
to its place after that
as I can’t rise with it
for fear of … what?
Dying with it in my hands?
How would that be any different from failing?
I don’t ask the right questions, I guess.
After the struggle when I return to my seat
I feel electric,
satisfied till the next morning comes
in the sweet time between summer and fall.

Here is where I have to stay until
tomorrow, until the next time
I have a need to progress —
although I don’t know what progress
I have to make toward anything.

I wil turn up the radio and sing
tunelessly along with
whoever the singer is
when I get back, make some headway
toward another time;
think about stealing more fire
from the sun, I guess.
Cradle another child
in my burnt arms.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
onward,
T