Nap Time

October 14, 2011

A few years ago I wrote a series of poems about a childhood, mine, and about the part of England where I grew up. My poetic muse comes and goes, but dropped in recently to pop out this tiny offering.


Nap Time

Now and then
I take a nap
A nap on the couch
It’s that or pretend I am paying attention.
To accelerate a reluctant somnolence
I return to another house
A house very far away
And in the past
Where my mother is busy in the kitchen.
While I doze off my jet lag in the closet she calls a bedroom
The almost rhythmic sounds of her kitchen are a sleeping draught
A draught so powerful no opiate competes

I wonder now if she knew.


It is a work in progress. No promises.



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