Wishful Napping By Tim Loss (Poetry)

It drips rain through the ceiling tiles,

on even the brightest days.

And the boredom is heavy and consuming

and deep

and like a fly at the bottom

of a cup of wine

I end up consumed by all this,

and happy in my peaceful death.

 

The price of hope it would seem

has risen from my grasp,

but the price of dreaming

sits at the edge of the bed

with the blankets and the dogs

and the smell of cold air.

 

And I like these bare

wooden floors

and I like my dog

and I’d like to see what happens

tomorrow afternoon;

 

And I’d like to keep missing you

and I would hate for anyone to have to miss me.

So I think I will stay.

 

And just like when you said

I wouldn’t be worth a damn

I keep proving you wrong

little by little at a time.

 

Even if it is only by

fighting off the urge to

kill myself every night,

only to kick my own ass

the next morning.

 

But the afternoons are usually nice

and god knows nice has to be

better than dead.