poem of the week

Bewild by Eric Abbott

Not angry. Not pained exactly.
Not the new shoes of social settings.

Not now. All bets off. All left-
overs left to rot. What’s hot and fresh

and willing walks away because I cannot play
that game anymore. Anymore, all I want

to do is sleep. That’s a lie, I want to wake
and shake the hand of a day that wants me in it.

I think of heaven and all
I think of is the end of this.

What say a man refuses to cast himself in any role
save fool, foil, jester, savior unable to save himself,

the gesture of hero unhearalded,
here, in this my own small doghouse.




You can check out the multimodal version here: Bewild