Day's End

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Day's End

 

Where I Belong

 

The Raving Poets meet in a dimly lit tavern basement. Mostly in their twenties, they're dressed in second-hand scruff. I'm in coat and tie, having come from delivering a lecture to a group of business men.

Poet after poet rants against capitalism, poverty, politics, sexism and racism. I try to remember what it was like to be them, to recall how I felt when we marched against the war in Vietnam, but I no longer feel youth's need to rage against social injustice.

Stifling the urge to leave, I read a poem about my old bathrobe – how wearing it is akin to the relationship with my wife – full of holes, yet comfy. There's unenthusiastic applause as I return to my table where, helped along by the cheap house wine, I descend from an adrenaline rush to depression.

Home at last, tabby rushes out to rub against my legs, mews incessantly for her bowl of kibble.

midnight journal –
the cat struts across
my keyboard

 


R. Rasmussen, Ink, Sweat & Tears, 2003.

The poem about my old "Bathrobe"