My Broken Casements

My Broken Casements

When electricity burns through you nerves like
the hum of a dozen engines,
and your head is encased in wasted dreams
you would rather not remember,
days shake you like a rug and heap more reasons
to close your eyes than stay awake watching
for something meaningful to happen.

I cannot confess enough; my confessions are meaningless.
And yet there are more sins I’ve committed than sins I’ve
admitted. The numbers do not matter. My broken casements
would still let in the cold though I was young and innocent.

I barely have to look past my window to know
that life is better than I perceive it. And yet
tears are my food,
heartache is my refreshment,
boredom is my religion, and
loneliness the name I call nearly everything.

I rarely create. My mind watches the calendar for
the next date that I’ll miss, or sit silent among people
I know, unloading my defenses privately at home.

I would board a train to yesterday if I knew when it
departed. I would post my arrival to be sure someone
would show up for me with my heart in hand.

Today I’ll blame the pain, tomorrow the people who
promised to refrain from warfare. Next week I’ll accuse
the loosened nuts and bolts for not keeping me together.
Everything is out of joint; everything is knotted tightly.
I’d tell you all my stories, but I know it would not end well.

So, I hide myself within myself. I confide only in the rain.
Inside this jar of clay I see only through the cracks
inches away. Outside I might look in. Outside I might
laugh that a silly man can find so little joy in an hour
of neighbors and celebration.

But the electricity still runs, sending my mind a thousand
times around the same stories that never did end well.