Can the sleep-deprived write meaningful Summertime commentary? DDOSF entry.
I work and play, only as a writer can…
The work hours are odd to most.
I cannot even say, with a whisper of romance,
“Her sun is the moon.”
I am concealed in glass and steel and concrete –
Behind closed doors and darkened windows.
My congealed gray matter works by rote
And a busy mouse will stem most needs for typing skill.
Working the nightshift
I do not see many people.
Instead, it seems my co-workers are wild
And I, also, pick up a scent and mill about in the forest.
When the sun rises, the joy and agony of it hit. It is yet a long way to home.
None of the regular morning radio hosts
Are awake with me in the crucial hour of my commute
Vacations of a week or two, hangovers and other mishaps
Are apologized for, or smoothly dismissed by the replacement Dee Jay.
It is much cooler driving this hour;
The opposing lanes are already crammed full.
My fun for the day: Getting to drive at or above the posted
Speed limit. (Also, staying awake so I can get home.) And a thought:
Could Summer memories be flash frozen for freshness?
Home and bed.
Once I walk inside, the windows allowing in Easterly light,
The thoughts of what I could be doing
Speak loudly, as if all are attending summer camp
Force-fed S’mores and are singing in a swaying circle.
These creative sparks
Keep me writing home.
The home computer gets fired up
Even as the darkened bedroom beckons.
No one else’s Summertime desires are yet awake to interfere.