Email Poem

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Personal Note:

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Poem

This is a seven minute write.
In seven minutes, I go to bed.
But first, I will continue.
When ghosts…
When roasts…
Go to bed.
Go away to the barn where hay is baled.
And trails of mud lead to the kitchen.
And the ramblings continue.
I have an eraser.
But to use it?
Would be destruction.
Gray matter.
Being shaved and marked.
I don’t know where I am.
In my journey of seven minutes.
I am not determined to do much except sleep after this.
I am not determined.
Just sleepy.
I have water by my bed.
I’m in pajamas.
They don’t care-
Carry me.
Like the way…
Like the way I don’t plan anything anymore.
Seven minutes is easy.
The end credits roll.
No one erases anything these days.
It’s not worth the time.
Seven minutes.
Eraser marks.
Where my car parks.
Everywhere.
Like lines.
That we draw.
And stand in.

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