Half sitting in my big bed
not awake, not thinking
my head
slung back against
the bed head.
It’s late.
My feet are cold.
I hear at times a passing car
but far away.
I stare toward the roof,
toward the light,
not even squinting
before that blinding pear
which dangles nakedly
and spills it’s seed of light
on the barrenness
of my room,
my refuge?
A bell rings
cutting across the refrain
of a Simon and Garfunkel song
I was humming in my brain.
Somewhere there’s a fire
somewhere there’s distress and pain
and an aftermath
of burnt-out
emotions
charred façade
petrified remains.
Another hollow monument
to an unheard cry.
Like me.
(1987)
© Cate Kimberley and Word and Affect, 2012
Word and Affect 