Next Week
it’s 7:03, thursday night.
the movie is late to start.
my right shoe feels too tight
and some generation X icon
is howling from the speakers.
in my lap I hold
incomplete thoughts,
dreams from which I woke too soon,
meals half eaten, unsavored.
children crying for love & attention
that they might grow strong.
some people start a crossword puzzle,
fill in the easy spaces,
then toss it aside.
the movie begins without warning.
I return my unfinished poems
to the confines of my backpack
and they suffocate in it’s darkness.
copyright Skippy / Adrian Smith -- 2000
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