The Change

(Physiological changes
are afoot;)
my memory takes me back
to the itchy fabric
of my dead father’s sweaters.
(Was alcohol there so
that I could abuse
any warming images of
yesterday?)
Sitting alone and sad
with the Miniature Schnauzer
on my lap
whilst the cat circled
against my knowing
of its selfishness.
(Were the beers sunk
to destroy contrast)
The television is on
like it used to be on
all the time,
now it breaks up the lines
along with their laughter.

(Psychological changes
are in motion:)
I want to curl up with her
away from this, albeit
slight publicity,
away from the noises,
from the something
I have endured for hours;
for days.
(were those fine
Belgian beers
the sole catalyst for
taking me to others)
I dream of the ideal
of having just her and the page,
but now is not the time,
now is not the time.

I will part from this
and the page,
using these changes
as another one
of my
many excuses
to get me to the place
in which closed eyelids
shut it out
and the ears
wait
for the intimacy
of silence.

There are no desires
to wait for the credits
to roll.