When I come to I find myself standing in the kitchen.
My hands are busy wiping, straightening, organizing. My mind is numb.
I am staring straight ahead perhaps gazing apathetically at a pile of dust or papers or thoughts that have crept in to wound me again.
I am not even sure what has called me out of this stupor.
Maybe it was one of the thoughts, like a shout through a thick glass door.
It is gone now.
I looked up too late to see it beckoning.
I took so long I didn’t even see the torn seams of its famous
whipping around the corner.
For is there any matter anymore?
I can’t remember why I started.
I don’t know where I am headed.
It was like this in that old house that sold for a song
on the banks of plum broke in a two bit town you needed three bits to make it
Who gives a rat’s ass?
Not me anymore.
Surrendering to the doldrums long locked away by fantasy.
For you they passed the time.
I think for me they stemmed the tide
Of the dark wave of sadness
That has always threatened to take me down.
To the depths.
In a fog
Of my own fashioning
But don’t worry