Morning In America
On the edge of a bed
facing the window
open to the sound of day
construction on the highway
distant sirens chasing
or rushing to some scene
The images of my mother
and her sister
begin to dissipate
and the urgency of cleaning
the carpeted floor
where a broken mirror
and light bulb fragments
have me spinning
from dreamland catastrophes
these two siblings created
Worry of injured feet
have my vanishing thoughts
joining this world
rather than the imagined
visitation of specters
I begin to push aside the night
to once again isolate
from all I know
and have known
to escape an illness
just being in my home
doing the dishes
taking my pills
realigning the cans
in my cabinets
throwing away the useless
as I realize how useless I am
producing little nothings
at the edge of language
It takes the music of Glinka
to spin me up
from this reverie
to go on
into my day
as if I had value
locked in a cage
behind my prison walls
Where are you?
You have never
come to visit
You are the only one
I would let in without
a mask
to protect me
from the one thing
I sometimes desire
So I wait for you
reminded of our days
and how few they were
All this from the edge
of a bed
as the curtains breathe
in and out
the lung of my house
unaffected by the disease
currently in fashion
Barry G. Wick
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