Sunday Morning Muse, Minus an Hour

I struggle this morning. Whether to read poems, or write them.
I’ve lost an hour. Where did it go?
I hate subordinate clauses that are followed by non sequiturs.
I hear slips all the time—like tinnitus, like a mosquito’s whine, like a seagull’s cry.

I read poems I could never write. I read them aloud.
They make me cry. Because what is wise is always also sad.
Wisdom has failed me again, hiding behind its clever sister.
I overhear cunning all the time, like a gunshot, like an IED, like a cop car’s siren.

Such a queue of things to do. It takes an hour just to read it.
I’ve lost that hour, so what to do?
If I were to write without censoring, would it be wisdom, or cunning?
I’ve words floating in my mind all day, like crickets, like hummingbirds, like bees.

If it is better to write something than nothing, would I dare write truth?
This is not a non sequitur. I’m quite serious. I need to know.
This morning I’ve lost an hour. It happens all the time.
Like an accidental nap, like a stomach ache, like a funhouse mirror.

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