Your poem is more froth than substance


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.