It’s been two weeks of unrelenting gray drizzle and drip out there; I’ve forgotten what the sun looks like, but I think it may blind me if it ever peeks out from behind the clouds, again. The world is damp and it feels like brain rot’s about to set in. In fact, the past week has brought nothing but vertigo, nausea, and an irritating escalation of tinnitus – even the silent moments now sound like mosquitoes with tiny little castanets, and to swat at them is to smack myself upside the head. Antivert is effective enough, but to take it during the work day is to risk being found snoring with my head resting atop a keyboard.
Naturally, some chipper little part of me that hasn’t died already is enthusiastically piping up with nonsense like, “I know! Let’s write a poem!” I glare at it. I snarl from a crawlspace beneath the stairs to the cellar in my imagination. If looks could kill, it would’ve died, already. Instead, it takes perverse delight in drawing inspiration from the dank and mush of what’s left of my gray matter. That only makes me feel grumpier, but it is as persistent as the rain and as irritatingly cheerful as the birds chirping over the worms that swim on the surface of the mud puddles in my back yard before dawn. I give it another week; nothing can hold out that long. The rest of me gave up days ago.
Damp and Drear
Gritty, gray cloud-sponge
slowly squeezed by unseen hands,
Wrung dry; released to heave a sigh
and suck the moisture up again.
Trees, drought-parched, slake thirsts
with roots that rot from deep within;
As dreary dripping washes over all –
incessant, undulating bands.
Against the syncopated, joyous chirp
Of early risers, plucking worm-strings. Dissonance
Of wet, indignant cat – like me, too weather-worn
To bother with the hunt.