“interrogation of flies“
I sit at my desk
cigarette in hand
half cocked, not lit
ashtray, ashtrays no longer exist
papers arranged by ear by year
slop across the desktop
or what the cat lady dragged in
priorities rise and fall like a tide
always coming in
always high tide
I would like to think I made something of this life
but no, here I am, here am I,
mired in this, my domain, my cage.
notes… in my head I saw this beaten down disheveled lifer newspaper guy, who can’t smoke at his desk furiously anymore, and like any of us he misses the “good old days” regardless if they were actually good, they were the routine, and most of us fall in love with routine, but then we wind up, here and there, with a waking moment like “what the hell am I doing here?” and then it passes as furious and visceral as it felt, falls back to the routine, so this poem is not technically about me but definitely has some pieces of me in the bones…
and…. if you do me the honor of sharing my content, cool, please do, just a hint of credit would do nicely though on the karma meter, and thanks for the look, the read, your time, I appreciate it.