Circa Dec. 2001

i am tired:

tired of paper,

shuffling steps,

slick edges that bite

and keyboard hunches,

florescent light,

skipped and rushed lunches

then dull, lonely nights

of dry tasks at home,

darkness of walls

under high, cracked ceilings

with a brain unbright, sad,

yes, those are my feelings

between working and bed,

the dull, lonely nights

despite constant company

from a lover, no less,

whose profession is passion,

which both delights and drowns,

like seashores, where inaction

leads unswimmers sinking naturally down

into dull, lonely nights

unflickering with transluscent wings

lofting insect smiles that could buzz

the heartstrings of one

for whom dinner was made

hours after the sun

faded and my hunger set, delayed

for dull, lonely nights,

small, unseen cages to catch joy

and throw it away

while he studies and draws

i stumble, fall, locked into petty tasks,

floors followed with broomstraw,

profound questions unasked

during dull, lonely nights.