Home
The child loves to go to the park and pick up sticks.
Like a dog, he will try to bring
one impossibly long stick home,
but he is 4 and by 4 o’clock
he is getting tired.
He still will not let go of one end.
He totters to the car like this,
at the carpark
he is actually sleepwalking.
I wake up,
a wandering hermit crab slips back into its shell.
Time concertinas,
the mind plays tricks in too much light or dark.
It’s 4 in the morning,
I’ve been gripping the end of a twisted sheet.
Strange,
but I want to take it home.
Copyright © Eric Ashford | Year Posted 2019
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment