Thursday, July 11, 2013


The worst time is 3:45 a.m. hope is gone. 
It is the most melancholy feeling. 
The room fallow in that shade of night. 
Dreary, desolate, even the breeze 
from the open window is misery. 
My eyes burn as if peppered. 
I repeat dumb things to myself, 
not complete thoughts, just vague bursts. 
I think about the word, Burgundy
My mother wore a burgundy dress 
to a wedding. 
Did we bury her in it?
I roll from my stomach to my side again. 
I try again to count to 500. At 76,
my mother's burgundy drapes float up
then vanish. 
No one on earth understands why
creatures sleep, 
why they must sleep to stay sane. 
If only I could see the stars! 
Is that a piano I hear? 
It's my old love. 
I lay still, listen. 
He looks stern, almost angry when he plays. 
I remember the burgundy gown 
my mother gave me, how it annoyed me.
She gave me something so formal!
Me, who hasn't worn a gown since my prom, 
and that was knee length, a ruffled taffeta 
dress, fuchsia, which is almost burgundy. 
I guess the love of burgundy runs in the family.  
Come to think of it, 
my mother dressed her porcelan dolls in burgundy. 
Wouldn't it be wonderful if I am dreaming
If I am actually asleep?