Last Nine Days of Poetry Sedation

I left poetry books everywhere. On top of the washing machine and on end tables and bookshelves, not stacked neatly. On kitchen counters and sofas and rumpled blankets. 

I am reading my last book at the library. A man is watching something loudly from his phone and coughs wetly and I wonder will someone say something or should I have brought headphones?

I’m positioned in front of the children’s entrance, so every now and then I look up to see horses painted grandly that belong in a carousel. I hear the rapid and chaotic steps of a kid that’s launching him or herself to the glass doors and (if I’m being quite real with myself) I feel a familiar pang that builds around my clavicles and makes my eyes sting because I suppose biologically I am meant to wonder what it’s like to sit across from a child of my very own in that room.

But I need to focus, there’s a book to finish.

The Sealey Challenge was lovely, but I’m glad it’s over. I’m ready for September and for different books. What I’ll keep are the rhythms, the atmospheres, the hard to sit with, and the quietness of a month spent with poems.

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