Prelude To A Scream

We absorbed the morning like statues
cold and indifferent to its light,
eating the sun like swallowing a pill,
not thinking of its warmth
just tolerating its glow
because there was no switch to shut it off.

The newspaper sits on the kitchen table
rubber band still wrapped around the pages,
would cancel the subscription,
yet hoping this death inside
will stop being glasses for the eyes.

Outside the living room window
our neighbor mows his lawn,
it doesn’t need cutting,
but it keeps him from going insane
over being in a time machine that is frozen at 1991.

It is the last time any of us
felt the hour come with other than a thought
there was nothing tomorrow would bring,
which promised more than a yawn.

Tried resetting the clock to pretend
everything was changing,
if only this crippling sameness didn’t paralyze.

Haven’t dug my grave yet,
not going to write my will,
for in this hole where I’ve been living
there’s always a chance I’ll escape.

Ruts aren’t always prisoners
if you look for the right shovel to fill them up,
sometimes it just waits that occasion
when the brain stops sleeping,
suddenly waking to hunger to be on fire again
as life regains it flam and intensity
with an inner alarm ripping at the lethargy,
being a prelude to a scream.