Froth
Your poem is more froth than substance
--Editor
Maureen A. Sherbondy
It is, after all, a mere imitation
of life. Each day wading through
the sea of the mundane. I wake
to find stains of yesterday’s mistakes,
mishaps on the rug, brown blobs of memory
that fade but won’t ever disappear.
Morning alarm, I wipe obstacles
from my crusty eyes. The sun rises
again, the coffee hisses its argument
towards the end of completion. There
is depletion, the toothpaste tube rolled
towards empty, canisters of white ground
substances: sugar, flour, salt, near empty,
the cereal box too light to satisfy any hunger.
The phone rings incessantly
like words that spill from the mouths of
workers, friends and strangers, empty words
that echo and annoy but do not, can not ever
reach my flesh, caress me from the inside out.
What do I have in the bottom of the mug at the end
of the day--a wet moth flown in to drink and drown,
the whispers and words disappearing behind the silver
wings of the horizon, the only truth unfolded in the day -
the sun setting, its heels moving beneath the dark covers, back to
sleep again, as if it was never even here or real. One dead
moth buried beneath dark used grains and froth.