Poem: Under Eaves

A poem about making it through. And having someone there with you.

I was sitting in my room one night.
I was staring at the ashtray’s heart.
I was filling it with the flakes of my art.
And I had Warren on the stereo singing
‘bout mystics and statistics, singing
songs I wished I wrote.
And next day my landlord called
to wake me at 4pm, nice enough,
until he mentioned money,
the true reason for the call.

I remember it all and remember it well.
I’d tell myself what I wanted to hear
when I woke up each afternoon;
a hole in my heart and a broken
routine like a noose.

But I found someone that understands.

We used to dance around the table drunk.
Now we tiptoe around the teenager,
take turns putting meals on the table
and turning leftovers into something new.

The pictures in frames light us up.
And the cups of tea take us down.
The dogs share the bed.
And the books line the walls.
There’s a hum in my heart
instead of just that rumble.

This is the forever Warren never knew.