I felt the heat of the sun
On my hand, my face
As I raised the blinds
After a twelve hour worknight
That turned into near afternoon
Before I could put my key in the ignition,
Get home and open the blinds.
My skin is nearly paper now,
So I go back to the darkness of my bedroom,
Where the room is cool despite the weather outside.
I open the shades for effect
And to feel better about the day that will die
As soon as it lives.
Sitting in the same chair
In the same room,
The same chill shooting through my fingers
As I type this.
Forgetting why I am even writing.
My view from this window a putrid old white pickup truck
With a sign that says
RICHARD’S TERMITE AND PEST CONTROL
On the side
Sitting in the parking spot
Beside my Ford Focus
And a lawn, some trees.
I can’t see any further.
I am limited, you see.
The chill continues up my fingers, my arms
Into the center of me.
Nothing good written.
I get up to close out all the lights
Even though the sun will not set
I shut out the sun.
The language closes up,
The blinds fold in,
The darkness seeps back in.
If only you heard the poems from my lips
And you were open enough
To believe them
And I was strong enough to live them
As I uttered them….
John Tustin’s poetry has appeared in many disparate literary journals in the last dozen years. fritzware.com/johntustinpoetry contains links to his published poetry online.
Image via Pixabay