as I was about to put
finger to keyboard
my dearly beloved broke open
a conversation about strong
bleach, pancakes and the price of tea.
when we were done
I was ready to start
but my next door neighbor
started work.
he’s a dj, tall and strong
and mixing tracks is what hE calls
this part of his job.
tonight he was mixing drum tracks and worked till
they formed a single, rapid drumbeat
inside my skull.
when he was finished
I entertained the possibility
that I might now write something, at last.
but this time
the cats were at me
clawing my legs
demanding fish in no uncertain terms.
more distraction followed:
an ambulance turned up
at the house across the street.
they wheeled out
the old guy who lives there
his poor face pale and sweaty
a thick blanket rolled
right up to his chin.
I couldn’t not watch.
then a van
shed its load of scrap metal
all over the road outside my house.
my dj neighbour would’ve been proud
of the noise it made.
by now it was fully dark
but crazies were still wandering
up and down outside
noise invading from all angles.
Jesus fucking Christ!
I said.
I’d been going to start work on a novel
but with so much distraction
and so little time left
I thought I’d settle on a poem.
only when I wrote down the title
my dearly beloved
leaned over
and said
that’s not how you spell Dostoyevsky.
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Read more about Wayne at his blog.
