SANS CAFFEINE

  

All I do is sit

with my head in my hands,

unable to think. And I stare

out the window at myself,

as I squat on the curb

like a blind beggar, holding out

my empty cup

to the agitated

passers-by: those who have had

their fix of morning coffee.

 

I keep falling asleep

in the middle of my work,

with fitful dreams

that are not

Wish-fulfilling Gems.

 

How many days

will I languish here,

like a marionette

hung up by its strings

in the dead master’s attic?

Perhaps the wind

will blow in through

these shattered glass panes--

enough to make me dance

and swing in mid-air;

enough to dispel

these wistful

and abortive

dreams.