hold my breath

It was just the three of us tonight
the family unit deconstructed by a sleep over,
the new dynamic, unleashing the spirit of littlest
which reminded us of her evolving personality

as if, one by one, the jokes she giggled to
fed the ball of energy inside her heart
like a fully formed gift
dreamed to life years ago.

She’s a sleep now, or at least in her bed on her way,
and I am keeping a promise to poetry.
I’ve forgotten how time consuming
it can be carrying these words close enough for you
to touch, and rub between your fingers like
old worn pages.

In preparation for writing, I’ve set the table with the following:

a chilled glass of Moscato-
the sweet orange fragrance rests on my tongue;
licking the sticky remnants from my moustache makes me feel
like an evolved primate with access to magic.

three books for inspiration randomly collected from my library-
“Somewhere inside me there’ll always be the person I am tonight.”
the line highlighted in fading green,
the pages dark and yellowed by time
and exposure and neglect.
In what moment of bliss or madness
did Fitzgerald uncover that gem?

“Hell is being scared of things.”
the Robbins novel is a window to the past,
long afternoons on the mattress on the cement floor,
as the termites ate the house down.
We were so eager to carve out a spirituality

“I used to hold my breath waiting for euphoria.”
an old Bukowski book with my scribbles in it
stares at me like a stow away on a time machine.

A lifetime is too long to be forced into one reflection.
We do not change enough to bare the boredom of selves.
I have forgotten all the things I’ve wanted to be. 

What have I accomplished tonight?
Another navel gazing poem that helped pass the hour.
Better than slowly disappearing, I suppose.
Better than following snarky tweets about dementia in power.

Any time spent poking at the center
has to mean something.