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,        shelf after shelf,

praying for a volume,       to announce itself,

like playing pokies,      some Three-Cherry read.

Soon, out of coin,     back in bed, with my tea,

sitting before this blank paper,    I bow,

with pencil in hand, well …   not blank now.

Joe Dolce