the things you once held so dear
the house, the job security,
the wife and kids living in the suburbs.
You are perusing the usual mirror
and one day it finally tells you the truth
and you find you've run out of time.
But you've grown accustomed
to looking at yourself backwards
in the mirror for so long,
that the right reflection seems wrong,
no matter what the angle of discontent.
Their voices at night through the window
invade your dreams until you are left
with nothing but the seeds of sleep
waiting to sprout in the grave
repast of your choosing.
Robert Lee Brewer: write a “what won’t wait” poem. Only you know what won’t wait. Maybe it’s falling in love or work–or death (one of my favorite Emily Dickinson poems is about this topic). Something else that won’t wait is today’s prompt.
Molly Fisk: Their voices at night through the window.
or kiss me in the back of…