Ghost Town

This poem is about not being able to sleep due to being sick and how silent the world is in the early morning hours.

By Amanda ZylstraPublished 7 years ago • 1 min read

I have a head cold.

I am dehydrated, half asleep grinding my teeth to the clicking of a wall clock.

My head is in a vice.

The two am train rolls through one and a half blocks away from my bedroom window.

Darkness mourns the morning air.

It’s a ghost town out there.

The earth is still and my face hurts when I try to pour coffee into my mouth.

Only feral cats can hear my cries as I sit on my back step in the snow.

I am approached by one black and white tuxedo cat.

I give her one large scoop of food in a pink plastic bowl.

She meows to me and rubs against my legs in gratitude.

It’s a Ghost town out there when all of the humans are resting their heads on pillows made of memory foam.

It’s not light enough for the sundial in my garden to work.

I am alone in this space and in this time.

Only feral cats can hear me during these hours when the world is still.

*This poem is featured in "Peeling Sanity" due for release in October 2018. Be sure to check out my other poetry collections on Amazon.

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Cat Lover, Poetry Writer, Tea Drinker, Skincare and Beauty Product Obsessed. Check out my poetry collection "Passing Skeletons" available on Amazon.

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