Foot In Hand
As we’ve aged (tried retirement), sleep-patterns have changed.
I am staying up later! Sleep gravitates, ebbs
less from forces that rule in a drive to work job
(where one must leave home’s relative bliss for eight hours)!
You do not need slave either but still, love your art
as a sculptor of coiffures, a teaser of waves
with their colorful highlights that speak of self-love,
and your ‘chirpiness’ faint hope command with cold cash.
But although we are different, love’s not estranged -
I do poems, NETFLIX, your dreams float on dark webs
sandman spins on the couch near my side (I’m nabob
with a blood-owned heart treasure no phantom-fear sours).
Ah, sleep’s kiss! Let you rest, undisturbed! I depart
to past’s bed where REM sleep, I hope beckons, behaves,
plays soft tune, more aged lighter peace heeds (silk touched glove).
...
Lift sleep’s legs, foot in hand; dawn rekindles from ash!
Brian Johnston
12th of October in 2020
Poet’s Notes:
I’m twelve years older than Kimmy, a Catholic School educated
boat-person emigrant who escaped Vietnam. With just a high
school education, she overcame many obstacles in life! With
deep emotional wounds from her culture, childhood abuse, war’s
dislocation and rape, and from the loss of a son to suicide (he
succumbed to bi-polar depression in his third year as a straight-A
college student), so many dreams escaped her! And yet she
became a successful businesswoman and empath, in my opinion!
And I, (always a lucky, prosperous man with advanced degrees,
an aspiring poet) love her above all others. Lucky me!
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