to a farm boy
death is obvious
chicken heads fall to the ground
to make way for Sunday’s dinner

a dead piglet
is found in the mud
crushed by its mother

the ratters
the hunters
the companions
they all disappear

but me,
I’m a city boy
death is kinda rare to me

as I age
I think about death
far more than ever

I frequently wear out
I ache
I have cracked teeth
inflamed knuckles
grey hair

I stay afloat
by drinking coffee

but still I doze

I remember doing this as a teenager
but then it was indulgence
now it’s necessity

the Buddhists
say naps are a “Noble Truth”

but I’m not a Buddhist

my father’s message
when I was a boy
was that rest is for the weak

now he spends his life
drinking coffee
and looking out the window

he thinks about death
far more than ever



Filed under outlaw poetry, poetry

4 responses to “Naps

  1. I’ve been away from my Reader far too long….

    Your words feel like a stream, to me.
    They don’t beat against my skin like the waves of the sea, they slip and tumble over me, past me, under me, and leave me feeling refreshed and calmer for having read them.

    In other words, you write good n that!

  2. Everything going for it . I like this one a lot. —Chagall

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