For a month this empty space
has tormented me,
pulsing like a tell-tale heart
beneath the floorboards.
I have conversed casually
in the evening with my bride,
passing calm comments
on fashionable news items.
I have enjoyed company
and made pleasant conversation
on unaccustomed subjects.
All was well so far as they could discern;
but, within, I was in agony.
The first several days, in daylight
I barely noted its feeble whimpering,
but that was a two-sided coin:
the month was unseasonably
dry and sunny, so mild
that I was able to lay out
pleasant diversions and itineraries;
but the nights magnified its protests
until I am living in its pounding drum:
I grind my ears under clenched fists:
there is no possibility I can ignore
the monster that has forged itself
of empty space and wasted potential.
It howls and pleads, screams
accusation and want.
I can avoid it no longer;
its blood will not cool by flowing;
I must scotch the snake, not kill it;
I must write, and thrust home:

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About riverwriter

Poet, playwright, duplicate bridge player, website designer, cottager, husband, father, grandfather, former athlete, carpenter, computer helper for my friends, theatre designer, backstage polymath, retired teacher of highschool English, drama, art, a baritone singer in a barbershop quartet, who knows what else? wordcurrents is on Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/wordcurrents/ Doug also has a Facebook page, "Incognitio", related to his novels.
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