blog, Pat Aitcheson writes, poetry

individu[al(one)]

man sitting in cell_Free-Photos
Free-Photos via pixabay

He is at work. Wednesday comes.

Hey, we’re off to the pub. Coming?
Sure. Why not.
Football scores. Office politics. The girl in the corner wearing blue.
Nothing to say. Sips a beer. No response to desperate glances.
Must be getting home or there’ll be hell to pay, right?
Right.

He is at work. Friday comes.

TGIF, am I right?
Right.
She’s got my weekend booked up, shopping and a BBQ, groan. You?
Nothing much.
I wish.
Three beers and Netflix. Pizza delivery. Quiet bed.

He is at work. Monday comes.

So busy this weekend, didn’t have a minute to myself. How about you?
Oh, you know. Quiet.
You’re lucky, time to yourself.
Yes. Lucky me.
Friday can’t come quick enough, am I right?
Right.

He is quiet. No trouble. No drama.

No sun. Engulfed by eternal cloud, muffled, numb.
Rain drips icy fingers down his neck, freezing his bones.
Invisible, lost, a lone wolf.
Teeth ripping at his own heart.
A final scream, choked. Unheard.
None to sing his elegy.

audio, blog, Pat Aitcheson writes, poetry

Doldrums

rowboat-alone_Quangpraha
Quangpraha via pixabay

listen here: 

The old storm has abated and the next, not yet arrived.
Did I throw out my oars in despair, or were they ripped from aching hands at the height of the tempest?
Adrift, bearing unknown, the lighthouse blind and dark,
clouds obscure the sun and hide the stars alike.

I drift

rudder splintered, compass shattered.
I hold my breath, not daring to inhale the leaden, empty air
no land in sight.
The waters shift below, yet no kindly current arises, lost here in the doldrums of life.

A heartbeat, then another, the only timepiece in this forgotten space
an unreliable machine, prone to error
incapable of solving the riddle, the longitude of my soul.
Aimless, unmapped blankness branded on my skin.

disconnected

drifting