Chris G Vaillancourt’s poetry has been read here before (Black Funeral Pyre, Unheard, Walking Beyond Her Reach) and his book, I Walk Naked into a Cloud, has recently been released. Chris writes poetry that readers can relate to. Today’s offering continues the theme.
Wasting Words Before I Go to Sleep
By Chris G Vaillancourt
Even though it is early in the morning
and I
want to punch holes in the walls
still,
the cat wants letting out
and the milk
has gone bad.
Its odor a refreshing change
from the stale
pretense of the
name-dropping relatives
who insist on
sharing the same blood.
I’ve sat up most of the night
with a man
I have idolized since
I was a boy.
His cancer has won
and the family
takes turns watching
him die.
We talk when we are
required to communicate.
Sometimes I wonder
how well we really
know the inside of
anybody else.
The cat meows at the door.
Now it wants letting in,
rubbing its fur against
my leg
as I stick two eggs
to boil on the stove.
Pouring coffee, I sit at
my desk and read
the letters that arrived
while I slept.
It’s going to be another
winning day.
Who
knows how many words
will be wasted from now
until I go to sleep again?
and I
want to punch holes in the walls
still,
the cat wants letting out
and the milk
has gone bad.
Its odor a refreshing change
from the stale
pretense of the
name-dropping relatives
who insist on
sharing the same blood.
I’ve sat up most of the night
with a man
I have idolized since
I was a boy.
His cancer has won
and the family
takes turns watching
him die.
We talk when we are
required to communicate.
Sometimes I wonder
how well we really
know the inside of
anybody else.
The cat meows at the door.
Now it wants letting in,
rubbing its fur against
my leg
as I stick two eggs
to boil on the stove.
Pouring coffee, I sit at
my desk and read
the letters that arrived
while I slept.
It’s going to be another
winning day.
Who
knows how many words
will be wasted from now
until I go to sleep again?
