Sunday, 31 January 2010

re POEM 8

Small talk

is what fills the rooms
these days

punctuated, forced;
hours spent keeping up

appearances of fatigued
dreams stretched

across too many years.
We have become a card-

board cut-out of an original
ideal. The traffic light

no longer green, but
a pulsating amber.

Between the bowl
of milk-soaked muesli,

the baby monitor goes off.
Looking up our gazes meet,

hang in mid-air and I rise
to attend to the bundle

gurgling in the only room
that makes sense.

Catherine Mark

2 comments:

Judith Ellis said...

Good images, Catherine. Very nice.

Christine Robinson said...

And people wonder why I'm skeptical about romance...

The difficult reality of responsibility and sleep deprivation.

I guess we all bring our own interpretations to the wordings of fellow writers.

It's nice to have you back.

Christine