Were I to exhibit all the things I treasure,
The museum of my life would be bigger
Than any house I have ever inhabited.
The sound of clacking typewriters
On a hot summer’s day;
A bust of Nefertiti,
The first woman I adored;
Books, books, and books,
Ones I’ve read and ones I’ve written;
The scents of four babies;
Children’s primitive drawings;
Cats’ discarded claws;
The perfume my love left on
My pillow when we first met.
Millions of things that mattered
Because everything matters.
R 14/06/2023 19:09
I’m sure I have written a poem about this before, or started one. Well, this is longer than the Mastodon version, and there’s a much longer one in progress sitting in a file on my machine now.
This week is proving to be one of sleep deprivation, and it’s not the heat that’s causing it; I have thoughts on everything chasing round in my brain non-stop. I need to remember to breathe and just slow down – the message of a poem I got in the post from B yesterday. I like getting personal things in the post; bills and work stuff less, because the former is an insult to my tightness and the latter because I think all business communications should be by email. Mixing lives again.
Need to start preparing a show for Radio Stradbroke on Friday. I’ll go do that instead of rambling.