My waking thoughts
from what to cook
to wasted time,
to withered dreams;
a book, a play, a legacy.
A rustle; there
across the corridor,
the child has woken.
I pack my introspection
and go to boil the milk.

©Cindy Taylor 2009

When I was fifteen, I wanted to be a man of few words, to be small and muscular with fine bones, to play slide guitar like Elmor James. I wanted to be fearless. I am thirty seven. The page is white and cool to touch. My hands smell of lemons. I still cling to impossible wishes. There is still time.



5 Comments Add yours

  1. deepercolors says:

    You are awsome. I want a copy of the chapbook! 🙂

  2. granny1947 says:

    I love this Cindy…from deep thoughts to the mundane in an instant!

  3. slpmartin says:

    I like the way you move from thoughts of self to having to deal with the realities of everyday life….as always a fine poem.

  4. Kavita says:

    Very well put !
    Ah, the distractions… that magically transform into the main task at hand … poof! And someone somewhere says ‘Welcome to reality’ 🙂

  5. Satyakam says:

    I liked the way u have put the reality, which most of us experience, in words…

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