Nine Seventeen, Pm
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For anyone who left comments on the original post of this poem, thank you and I apologize but I had to delete and re-post it.
Lying in bed, the light of my computer bright
against the still images slowly changing on the silent TV across the room.
Despoiling the image,
nine seventeen, pm
stands out on the bottom of the screen.
My tired head resting from the day's turmoil, unthinking,
unfocused.
In front of me I find myself back on some poetry page.
It appears to be a contest.
Yeah, me writing poetry, much less entering a contest,
what a joke.
I reach over and slip my headphones on,
“All I Ask of You,” from Phantom of the Opera is playing.
The room is dark. The room is quiet.
In the dimness on the wall in front of me
I glimpse a surreal painting my daughter painted.
The lower portion, that of a young woman,
changing to trees and clouds and blue sky.
No eyes to see.
The images imagined in her mind.
In the dimness the homemade gesso,
creating Bas-relief against the canvas, is imagined in mine.
The dark wooden frame stands stark against the rose grey wall,
the matted canvas surrounded by white.
Only sixteen and able to create such
mystery, such allure.
Ellen Greene,
“Stop and See Me,”
such sadness and longing in her voice.
Her giclee print smiling at me to my right, she was eight,
her older sister's, at age three, frames the large window.
Strong and independent, she makes me so proud.
She will likely be moving out soon.
I don't want to think about that.
“Run Away with Me,” Michael Arden,
I lose myself in the music,
“Evermore,” from Beauty and the Beast
(the Josh Groben version).
Loud and all encompassing,
surrounding me in another world,
letting free my emotions, calming my mood,
“I Dreamed a Dream,” Ramin Karimloo,
what's that sound?
I remove my headphones.
It's the dog.
OK, Oliver, I'll take you out.
I turn off the music.
On the screen I see
eleven forty-six, pm.
So much work I've neglected for tomorrow.
07/07/2018
Copyright © James Inman | Year Posted 2018
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