/uncomfort_

A poem? I grimace, the notion dismissed, but it sticks in my mind like an unwelcome guest

I glance out the window at the cool morning air, and run a clawed hand through my dank, greasy hair

This wasn’t the challenge it was meant to be, I know jack about writing let alone poetry

Comfort, they asked for, but where would I start? Just write, Google said, it will come from your heart

What bullshit is that? It’s no good at all, made for a lake, in a frame, on a wall

I sip my black coffee, the heat and the smell, takes me briefly away, and it’s all just as well

I can’t write poetry, it’s not fair at all, in defense my body curls into a ball

I close my eyes to the world, pull my gown tight around, clear my head and exhale with narry a sound

I could doze in this sunbeam, in peace for a time, but have to think about comfort and making words rhyme

A duvet, a blanket, a comforter, a shroud, the froth on your coffee or the edge of a cloud

A smile from a loved one, kids tucked up in bed, as you drift off to sleep a kiss on the head

These things all bleed comfort, they should make me relax, but the tension remains as I think of the task

A poem, I shudder, one of my own, takes me out, puts me down, in my discomfort zone.