Saturday, May 19, 2012

Talking, a poem


Some days, I just wander
around the house talking to myself.

Rainy days, more than others.

If I say her name
now and again, the dog will listen.

Where’s my treat? she wonders

as I ramble further,
ramble from room to room, looking

for whatever I lost there.

If I remembered what it was
I might find it.

Shouldn’t I know it when I see it?

The roof is leaking again,
I tell myself and the dog.

Stephen Brooke ©2012

I had to avoid the temptation to make more of this poem, to add images that would really serve no purpose. Even though it hurts to leave out a nifty bit of wordplay (I could have gone on and on about the dog), one must have the discipline to edit oneself. I suppose it’s no secret that I dislike self-indulgent wordiness in any sort of writing.

This almost became a song rather than a word piece. Maybe I’ll yet cannibalize a few lines and write something with a tune.

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