A Poem About Nothing

Poetry

Jay Sizemore
Nov 16 · 1 min read
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Photo by Tim Marshall on Unsplash

These are the quiet days
alone in the house,
the golden hues of daylight
dimming to the bluer hues
of night, ushered in by
the sounds of birds gossiping
and children fighting
with the moon
and their mother’s tongues,
for just one more hour
of freedom.

I remember when a back yard
could feel like a continent.

The books on my shelf
ask me to break their backs
and I ignore them,
instead desiring to watch
my hands pull the weeds
of thoughts
from the wrinkles in my brain,
like giving a sidewalk
a manicure.

Step on a crack
and you break
your imagination.

These are the nights
when I sleep so still
I awake with the blankets
undisturbed,
and I feel the way
a coma patient must feel
when their eyes
readjust to the brightness
of fresh white sheets
and cold, alien limbs
still attached
to their withered body.

I look at my watch
and it tells me
thirty years
past nothing.

I used to stare at the horizon
and think that somewhere
beyond that great distance
a future was waiting for me.

But now I know
the horizon is just
an optical illusion.

Scrittura

Poetry, Prose, and Nonfiction.

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Jay Sizemore

Written by

Provocative truth teller, author of 14 poetry collections. Cat dad. Dog dad. Currently working from Portland, Oregon. Learn more at: Jaysizemore.com.

Scrittura

Scrittura

Poetry and Prose: Great Readers, Great Writers

Jay Sizemore

Written by

Provocative truth teller, author of 14 poetry collections. Cat dad. Dog dad. Currently working from Portland, Oregon. Learn more at: Jaysizemore.com.

Scrittura

Scrittura

Poetry and Prose: Great Readers, Great Writers

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