by Lorena Freed
Inexorable silence of the phone
rings silences more penetrating still,
a message digitally clear and shrill,
a message that page forbids to moan.
I go to bed abstaining from my own
tasty words. Like a porcupine I take
in a curled sleep so tasty it could wake
the envy of a king right off the throne.
Delusions in the morning rise again
heavily, and I listen to the keys’
jangling. I beg help from a slumbring pen
to reason out the day’s absurdities.
Dawn brings no respite from the dawdling dark.
This town is still a bitch that will not bark.
About the Author:
Lorena Axman Freed may have been born in 1983. Sometimes she is a woman who enjoys gardening and paintball. Sometimes she just wonders whether she has really been anyone anywhere at all, though most of the time she knows that’s a very silly thing to wonder. She visited Florida once, but she really liked it.