Tom sums it up on Saturday
His brain was a big gray balloon
and he let go
of the string
his frontal lobes now sky high
as well as atrophied. Whose fault
was this? There was no one
to blame. No one
whose name he could remember.
He unplugged the phone and shoved it
under the bed. He was exhausted
from pretending to know
all the voices. The universe was full
of cousins who had his number. Still
Groucho said Hello, I must be going.
His street clothes were gone
from the closet. Maybe the street was gone
as well.
The psycho squad also had his number.
They made him make a clock.
He got the numbers
all wrong and it wasn’t Daliesque enough
to earn him points for overall
artistic achievement. He’ll never drive
again or do crossword puzzles
he heard them whisper officiously
like the nuns his first week in school
before the yardsticks and the times tables
and the litanies. Repeat after me.
If he practiced maybe
everything would be
awl wright. Alright.
All right.
© E. Michael Desilets, 2012 from “Nasty Stuff” published by Kattywompus Press.
SAD, So terribly SAD !!
Thanks for the note. Yes, the poem is sad. E. Michael Desilets has dedicated his chapbook (“Nasty Stuff”) to the memory of his brother, Thomas E. Desilets.