Sometimes I feel smothered
by this time of year,
overwhelmed with faded memories,
haunted by unrealistic expectations.
My pupils dilate with the diminished light,
my breathing pales, becoming shallow,
this body retreats to hibernation mode,
as my soul surrenders to some tainted seasonal disorder.
Tucked within this cerebral cocoon,
I dream, as some writers do,
like a midnight train leaving the station,
heading for some lofty or exotic destination,
as the asphyxiated fog begins to form.
But who has time for sleep?
My eyelids grow heavy,
like steel, double barrels,
abandoned, hollow memories
like sand slipping through my mind,
while the brandy sits comfortably in its snifter,
drifting to find its warm, introspective bouquet.
Pavlovian, utopian entitlement, no doubt,
you might say.
I’ve always wanted to live in this perfect little house,
in this perfect little town,
planting roses in the yard,
growing shallots in the ground,
singing carols ‘round the tree.
Not blaming myself for resurfacing ghosts from the past,
lined up in linked protocol,
throwing tinsel on the turkey
and providing fodder for a strangely lucid winter’s dream.
© Connie Song 2021. All Rights Reserved.
