Morning in America

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