Poetry

Joe Dolce: Pokie Poem

Pokie Poem   Four in the morning,          liver hour break, the gallstones feel radioactive,          ache, not enough for          a complete meltdown, but sore enough,          to push me around some bad news          dream— I jolt awake,          mid-scene.   Probing dark,          for the kitchen light, I sit idly on toilet,          sleep-sight thumbing food magazines,          Vogue, then stand there,          transfixed by the stove, contemplating a snack,          or forgotten name, saucepan of water          on the flame, the cracked cup,          the teaspoon tool, the sugar, milk,          tea-bag ritual.   Still too nightmare-wired          to sleep, so over to the bookcase,         a blank stare sweep, scanning titles,       …

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