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Rest
found in a solid rock,
my ass on the polished surface.
It’s neither cold nor warm
and the tatters in my pants give way
under my falling eye lids;

I haven’t slept, have not eaten much,
between yawns I let out grey smoke
wishing more of it.
Wondering when it’ll turn a sweet white.

It is that thing I hate the most,
that awkward phase between phases
that separates life’s crucial moments,
periods of apprenticeship that dare drain me
until I am myself white and leathered in skin,
until I am put in the way of that sea
of cars and countless people and finally
feel myself soften, or, at all.

Wake up!  Take back!

But every thing here is mine
and what is not will soon be, now
to lift this stone up and out of here
before the cold front returns
to wipe it all clear from my memory.