Novel
A poem for Sunday
Not even in my dreams is it done: its plots
set, its characters lost in thoughts I once
thought. There’s still that long ugly stretch I forgot
to set down (i.e., chose not to recall), the parts
that constitute the Real Thing & insist
on remaining parted even after the limp
third act & the long-expected relapse, the mother
losing her mind, the son minding her loss,
& all those lovely sentence fragments chained
like daisies to their throats. No. Most nights,
I dream of doors in a long hallway. I know
that one belongs to me, that when I step
through it, I will arrive finally at my life.
Just not tonight. Perhaps another night.
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