Greg Budig 2022
Midnight... or
somewhere
around there.
Eyes feeling slightly
cracked, barely open
and out of focus.
The TV is still on.
Learned how cabbage
soup is made in Poland.
Feel hungry for crackers.
Wandering to the
kitchen and then
the bathroom.
Every two hours.
Like clockwork.
Almost one o'clock.
Book on the
nightstand.
Morning poems
by Robert Bly.
Intoxicating words.
Eloquent language.
Memorable passages
that I no longer recall.
Ordinary people
with ordinary lives.
Feeling transformed...
but still a little hungry.
Stumbling back into
the bathroom.
Must be almost
three o'clock.
Doodles
in a sketch pad.
Eraser crumbs fall
everywhere.
Dozens of
scribbled eye balls all
staring lost into the
boundless complexity
of the universe.
Abandoned projects
revived… again.
Poetry is written
on my phone, same
as my food orders.
Looks to be
almost five o'clock.
I should really
get some
sleep.
The End
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