Neil Reeder

Quicksand

My room is quiet; I’ve woken surreptitiously.
The day feels early, so ready for sunshine –
and it must be Saturday, a time with a chance
to wander in woods beneath a patina of leaves;
along my spine comes a shiver of bliss in freedom,
and slowly recollecting what’s before and what’s ahead,
there comes the thought:  … “it’s Thursday. Oh …”

The clock says half past five. I cannot sleep.
I lull to random reminiscences:
“last time I met a man so instantly friendly,
the ticket he sold me turned out a fake …”
“my name; my name on the internet. In an unknown town
a duplicate me; with dozens of mourners at my funeral ….”

Cannot sleep. I twist and turn around in bed, turn around,
question myself; fight against inaudible sounds;
musings on might-have-beens waver and flicker within;
they flicker; my mind is open, shut, open; blank.

 

 

 

Neil Reeder is a researcher on public services, who lives and works in London. Sometimes a karaoke singer, sometimes an economist, his poems have been published in Equinox, the Rialto, and Soul Feathers

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