An Empty Head
Sometimes he feels like a museum on
a Monday - empty, desolate, withdrawn
from the celestial library where not
yet written prose and poetry are stored.
A sleep-deprived, he walks around the rooms,
he curses rhymes and rhythms, he assumes
a pledge to give it up, to live a life
a mere human lives - to have a wife,
to find a paying job, to meet with friends,
to be a fan of “Liverpool”* that tends
to take last place this season, to get old,
to pay off mortgages, to die from cold
but not insomnia…
As someone said,
nothing is fuller than an empty head.
*England's football club
11/14/2019
Favourite Poem From November 2019 Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Julia Ward
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