Robert Thomas

Intermittently I study 
That shining window
Open just enough
To allow the muffled sounds of health
And I’m hoping a scent of breeze.

It’s shadowy in here, though
Even in bright day
The lights are off –
Melancholy darkness
Lurks in corners
Slinks along the furniture
And moldings.

The faux-antique clock
There on the mantle
Ticking always
Effortlessly
Slicing gloomy silence
Letting out time in cruel snippets
Little pieces of pain and loneliness 
Fluttering in hopeless tedium.

In housecoat and slippers
And fresh pajamas 
I sprawl on cushions
Like a dilapidated grandee
Light-headed and sweaty
Goblet of lemon tea nearby
Meandering through broadsheets 
Holding court 
With fevered thoughts.

Let me float through that shining portal
Out of this cavern of shadow and discomfort
And light, clear-headed and vigorous
On the living grass beyond.

Or more likely, slumber out 
In wretched half-sleep
And disjointed dreams
This paltry state –
That pitiless clock
Ever near,
Ever audible.

Paper Plates, Vol. 8, No. 4, p. 21