Two Poems

Not Yet Asleep

He contemplates the fate of all the plastic
in the Pacific, pictures the hand of a hip
scofflaw tossing a cigarette on the front
lawn from a speeding car. Each pittance
shares the same destination. A new continent
extends from Japan to California, the husk
of the last century, the dead the dollar made.
Under the blanket, his body is a comma then
a question mark. “There’s no remedy for
the multitude” he thinks and kicks the covers
from his feet. “Pacific trash vortex” – the phrase
towers in the limelight of his obsession.
He remembers: a thumbnail scratches the waxy
surface of a store-bought plum. Garbage bags,
pill bottles, cups, action figures, sunglasses,
a landscape bleached the color of a clover
flower where the ground conforms to every
step and the air is a rancid confection.

*

Suddenly Awake

He remembers the need to push the trash
container to the curb. Someone left the television
on. He extends an arm toward the chaos and the room
goes dark. Outside, the air smells like rotten plums.
With a grimace he shoves the bin with his hip
and rolls it balanced on its back wheels. Now
the garbage sits in the limelight under the lamppost.
It resembles a memorial. Clutching his back, he
contemplates the scofflaw life, letting clover
and dandelions invade the lawn, allowing waste
to mound up at the corner – first a small hill
then a rotting tower, city for the maggot multitude,
fantasy confection for flies. He curses the neighbors
who never conform, even to common sense.
An abandoned bonfire burns behind their house.
Staring at the glow, he thinks “there’s no remedy.”
As he curls back into a husk of sheets, a pittance
of sleep, the crickets cheer his absence.

* * *
This is my entry for Read Write Poem prompt #92. The idea is to use the following words: remedy, multitude, hip, scofflaw, husk, extend, plum, conform, limelight, clover, pittance, confection and sleep.

I wanted to write two poems and see how much I could link them according to style, tone, content and language.

* * *
Dana pointed out that these would read better as prose poems. They started out that way and I’m not sure why I thought they had to have wide margins. Here is her suggestion for how they might look — thanks Dana!

Not Yet Asleep

He contemplates the fate of all the plastic in the Pacific, pictures the hand of a hip scofflaw tossing a cigarette on the front lawn from a speeding car. Each pittance shares the same destination. A new continent extends from Japan to California, the husk of the last century, the dead the dollar made. Under the blanket, his body is a comma then a question mark. “There’s no remedy for the multitude” he thinks and kicks the covers from his feet. “Pacific trash vortex” – the phrase towers in the limelight of his obsession. He remembers: a thumbnail scratches the waxy surface of a store-bought plum. Garbage bags, pill bottles, cups, action figures, sunglasses, a landscape bleached the color of a clover flower where the ground conforms to every step and the air is a rancid confection.

*

Suddenly Awake

He remembers the need to push the trash container to the curb. Someone left the television on. He extends an arm toward the chaos and the room goes dark. Outside, the air smells like rotten plums. With a grimace he shoves the bin with his hip and rolls it balanced on its back wheels. Now the garbage sits in the limelight under the lamppost. It resembles a memorial. Clutching his back, he contemplates the scofflaw life, letting clover and dandelions invade the lawn, allowing waste to mound up at the corner – first a small hill then a rotting tower, city for the maggot multitude, fantasy confection for flies. He curses the neighbors who never conform, even to common sense. An abandoned bonfire burns behind their house. Staring at the glow, he thinks “there’s no remedy.” As he curls back into a husk of sheets, a pittance of sleep, the crickets cheer his absence.