Drum

Steady pounding.

A torturer in beige linen.

When rest becomes the enemy and thinking is a luxury, a lifeline is words. Words too loud to bear.

A tissue, a steaming mug, that steady beating drum. My view through the vast window is of shivering and isolation.

Or a vast mirror.

Winter brings child-like joy. Born of sacrifice and sorrow.
Hot showers are pleasure and pain.

With a weary step I go forth to take on the world.

And put on my robe.

So many messes that I could fix if I took the time. Injustice. Poverty. Ignorance.

A pile of dirty soup bowls.

A bottle of pills is the disease and the cure.

So I take two for the team.

Cursed drum.

May you forever keep pounding.