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Sans Caffeine
by Lee Evans
All I do is sit
with my head in my hands,
unable to think. And I stare
out the window at myself,
as I squat on the curb
like a blind beggar, holding out
my empty cup
to the agitated
passers-by: those who have had
their fix of morning coffee.
I keep falling asleep
in the middle of my work,
with fitful dreams
that are not
Wish-fulfilling Gems.
How many days
will I languish here,
like a marionette
hung up by its strings
in the dead master’s attic?
Perhaps the wind
will blow in through
these shattered glass panes--
enough to make me dance
and swing in mid-air;
enough to dispel
these wistful
and abortive
dreams.
Tags:
caffeine
poem
