NaWUPoBo, #22.5
These sonnets are little things, true, but they are the evidence I leave behind of how I am. What is happening in my world. Perhaps that is evidence enough that I have had a busy day? Perhaps I take my sonnets too freely, for granted no less? Perhaps.
The worse time is a day-off, hesitant
what to do with so many hours. No
body calls on the telephone, shouldn't
I have someone who will send me pillow
books or lewd notes? I sing along, alone
with the stereo on endless repeat.
Once I took the mutton bone, the blade-bone,
and made the First Singing Magic to beat
back the despair. Once. Now I feel saddled
to do something special on these lone days.
Soon this day will be done, nothing ribald
happened, again. To sail away? Stargaze?
To live with grace? Cat, why have I despaired?
Where is this fire? Blade bone? O, cat, I'm scared.