Pizza has made me too tired for my pen.
Half written poems conceived in dreams
die during too-long days.
I try to save them, catch them
before they fall off the cliff into the abyss
of a second alarm or cats who need food, but
I always miss their hands-
My fingers find empty air while I drive to work and
open registers and bend to the demands of a day
made of words not my own and
pizza that’s made me too tired for my pen.
I’m too tired to go home to my notebook and
open its door to stretch out on its bed of white sheets.
minus pen and
phone alone as my voice,
I can’t meet a proper end because
my eyes on this screen want only the black of the walls.
Mythological friends call me to Sleep where
I can’t finish or correct or refine because
There my mind does instead of thinks.
I can’t better dress a line because
the clothes I chose originally up and disappeared and
the rags I’m left with don’t do the body justice.
Pizza has made me too tired to trust this
This should be a draft instead of a post-
water instead of cement and
a thread instead of the tunic.
Consider it the epitaph on the headstone of
my mass grave of dead words.