123

A poem

The day’s numbers constitute material

Punched codes, bland, ethereal

Let speech shatter from house to house

Like a worn out drum 

We fight and push.

Sometimes for air

But life attempts to add measurements

To which some cry

And face a penalty

They never meet.

The phone shrills on its jawbone

Somewhere in the street

the kettle spits on the gas

And I wonder

Why the name of home

Has been prescribed to this.

I watch the windows mist

With tears, with laughter

I wonder after

If it was all worth it

Now another branch of the family tree

Lies exhausted.

Any reaching out is  limited

Sometimes, at night

I lie myself, wasted

And feel the tears on my cheek

And my hand on my side.