Cabin Fever

click Flickr pic for source

Killjoy

 

Perhaps,

If I were in a room

with a bare floor

and no furniture

no pictures on the walls

no bloody phone

or television…or computer,

no books

or old photos, letters

and memories–

no windows–

only my imagination

and a pen (or two)

an empty notebook…

fresh thoughts

and ideas

(might be ideal conditions

for a fruitful harvest).

 

Instead,

I’m getting calls

asking if I’ve heard

of some new grocer

who delivers (he can’t

get off the phone fast enough when I tell him I don’t eat meat!)

Someone else wants to send me on a fantastic vacation

because I’m a “winner”.

A UK lottery is e-mailing me

to say I’ve lucked out to the tune of

a MILLION POUNDS or Euros (or something).

Oh, and my bank account’s messed up,

apparently, although I don’t actually have an account

with that bank.

 

The cats are tripping me up;

making their plays;

mewling their pathetic whiny, grating, trilling

noises,

as if I hadn’t fed them the best food on the market

two hours since;

as if I just ignored them

and never stroked them

or spoke to them like children.

As if!

 

How sad am I?

And always this knot,

in my stomach—eating away,

just gnawing; knowing I can’t get away–

can’t go far, find any peace

to just release the pen;

let it take over–

scribble any old thing

in an effort to produce a gem,

a jewel in the crown of my

achievements–

just let the pen

have its way with me.

 

I need some space.

 

Kathleen Mortensen©2009