letter to an old poet

in the smothering clasp of mother
night, you worry that you'll
miss your plane. that breakfast
will be badly boiled. that no one will
call to say i miss you. you worry
that you won't wake up. that
your dreams will bend gravity,
that the sun will rise on the
dark side of the universe. that
the taste of things will anaesthetize
your tongue. that you will invest
in a risky language and lose
your life savings. that the tv
won't recognize you, that your address
will be changed to pi squared. you worry
that a law of compulsory nudity
has been passed and you weren't
notified. that the president's insane.
that war's been declared over
cold coffee, that the colour of your
iris is censored downtown, that
the starving are being shipped out in
air conditioned buses. that the devil's
too bored to intervene. that cruelty
is the new fashion. that you're
hungry, lonely, exhausted, on the
wrong side of a global election.

old poet, snap out of it.

old romantic, comb your
hair, wash up, look your best. this

morning, you're safe. your wife's
frying an omelette. the kids
walk to school. traffic's light.
parking is free. your boss is
in a good mood and muffins
are on your desk. you glance
out the office window, the city
is a circuit of light,
you want to travel with her,
you're nearly crazed
with gratitude. this morning
all your worries will come true,
but to someone else.

© Robert Martens