Un(en)titled.

Rather lax about this "every day" endeavor, eh? Here's another off the cuff thing that really needs more work.


In the thick of it:
apple crates filling and emptying,
clatter of pie pans inside
and steam on the windows.
Brittle smell of frost soon gathering
on pumpkins and mums,
Old dog in the gravel drive,
his oily fur smell mingles
with the barrels full of
rotting cores and rinds.

At seventeen, you've received minimal direction.
You crave the strain, the structure, waking sore.
No substitute, no drug as pure as sheer exhaustion.
Your windbitten fingertips, your bootnumb toes
all day long crave that dreamless sleep,
so thick no light can penetrate.

Seventeen years of fretful thought tossed sleep
and only now are you learning the way of it:
how to work yourself til sore, til empty,
how to pour yourself through sawdust,
gravel, compost, dead leaves, dish upon
dirty dish, until you're clean entirely.

Before it turned you loose,
your first long autumn taught you this:
scrub out a rough perfection for yourself.
Live every moment. Do not dwell.