Bedside Table - Dec 2 2023

 

Bedside Table

Dec 2 2023

The stack of unread books,

half read ones,

and those I barely started,

dog-eared

where I left off.

Like a wordless rebuke

each time I turn in bed.

Lip balm, hand cream, eye glasses,

as if to remind me

of my decrepitude

and mortality.

A lip shmutzed glass

a quarter full

of flat water

lukewarm.

And the alarm clock,

that jangles me from sleep

at such an ungodly hour.

The sum of a life

on the bedside table

I can't help but face each morning.

I reach for the snooze,

then roll away

half-awake

snatched from half-asleep.

Screw my eyes shut,

bit never tight enough.

Because at daybreak

the light is unsparing;

a flat white

that seems to drain every colour

and lay the room bare.

The low sun is relentless,

reaching under the bed

and into the far corners,

lighting up the dust-balls

that found refuge in the dark.

The stack piles up.

like a Jenga tower

tottering

The water's been changed

but not the tumbler,

and now there's another ring.

And the glasses

with the loose left arm

were placed face down,

so chances are

the lens has been scratched again.

The alarm clock sounds

loud as ever;

I hit the snooze once more

and turn to face the wall.

Needless to say, as a gentleman of leisure, there is no alarm clock and no there are no early mornings.

All I had when I started writing was an image of a stack of unread books on a bedside table, and from there the poem found its own way.