ash flakes onto the desk like dirty snow from days first smoke
lit and pulled deep
he blows it away to collect and become dust
and
coffee steams out the round cup like ghosts of ground beans
and field labour
from
the
first
pot
he rubs sleep from tired eyes
he'll do this all day
he squints eyes tight shut fingers still over keys
trying
to
remember
the
words
he thought on waking
or just
from seconds ago
them he rattles them out/eyes unfocused -
or something close anyways
and of course they seem weak and his face shows displeasure
its quiet - this effort day task one
a challenge on waking
a discipline in the unwashed dressing gown
dry night sweat itching
a determination born of coldfire breakdowns
and drunken wasted time
he SAYS something and launches its small creation
into
electronic ether
the cat passes by - sits back-to-him on the wide window sill
watching
the
silent street and birds in the red berry bush
he sips coffee - opens new tabs - closes new tabs
checks the time
sometimes i control his hands
sometimes
from Hospice Matters wordpress
No comments:
Post a Comment