A cacophony of sound surrounds me,
As dissonant music blares into my mind.
I sit in front of my computer
to type away my latest poem.
"Are these your dirty shoes, dear?
We have a rack for them, you know."
"Why is our towel soiled, dear?
Were you fiddling with your car?"
Whining and carping, objecting and wailing.
Oh, for a precious moment of silence,
That I might be alone
That I may be allowed to concentrate
On my tenuous inspiration
Before it dissipates
Into its normal useless insubstantiality!
Gone is my poem, like a frightened bird.
My daily ride to Sand Island
Is now a pleasant memory:
Beautiful, nameless wildflowers
Led the way on both sides of me
And their commingled fragrances
Intoxicated my senses-
Numb insubstantiality:
Reality doesn’t exist
in this fantastical stupor.
I was still mindful of peddling
But in an autopilot mode:
Safe, yet lost in dreamlike
Thought where past, present and future
continued in the same time-frame.
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