T.S. Eliot Got Nothin’ on This

You called me today and I spoke the hollow words that we both thought you needed me to say. Hollow words, hollow men. I thought I would email you that poem. I wrote you one instead:


Counting the days has grown weary
and I don’t know what I’m waiting for

Sartre leaves me knotted.
His truth before sleep is unkind.
I will dig up this pride, this discreet madness.
You are the trouble with me
no more.

As gold strands unravel
I  will rub calloused toes against the crease in the sheet.
Under metallic amber sky
You will find the sacred sleep.




Filed under writing

2 responses to “T.S. Eliot Got Nothin’ on This

  1. Dan

    Gotta admit I have no idea what this means, but I will enjoy turning it over in my shallow pea brain!

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