Maybe Tomorrow Night?
by Odin Roark

Early last night
thinking got heavy.

Uncomfortable feelings crept in.
The mix was,
I don't know…

Revealing, I guess.

How much?

How much is one person supposed to carry?
How strong this body thin?

Have I not hammered enough nails,
untangled enough twisted synaptic vines?
When will it be finished,
this lean-to in the forest of high-rise expectancies,
these mindscapes where insomniacs of abandoned conscience
meet persistent awareness in flames?

Is there only sitting alone on empty subway cars
careening through express stops,
where ghosts of ancient ether float suspended,
waving their giddy hands as the blur passes,
where the burning midnight oil insistence
searches for better light,
illuminated dream signs,
visions that never cease?

That was before I reached the last stop,
climbed the stairs into midnight darkness,
listened to my cacophony of silence,
pushed through that familiar door,
straddled my stool at O'Riley's,
made my pencil write,
while five and dime glassware
became faceted crystal of my dreams,
sloshing melted memories about,
elbowing their way into napkin after napkin,
crossed out words after crossed out words,
caramel river after caramel river,
finding my liver oh so accommodating.

Later last night,
I found my perch atop the familiar railing.

You know,
the same one as before,
and before,
and before,
studying the arc.

Did you know water runs deepest
when you know it's really the right time?
And they keep telling me two-hundred feet
allows plenty of gravity to collect.

But…

They've got me in this awful green room again.
Took my pencil.
Gave me a crayon.
Black this time.
Words don't care.
Curls and lines.
Paper doesn’t care.

Late last night,
they said I had to stay awhile.

Again, you know,
‘til I convinced them, again
that I'm all here,
all together,
just a little lonely,
no harm.

You know,
I'm thinkin'
there's gotta be another way,
you know.
Better than making you up all the time.

Maybe we could meet,
you and me.
Coffee.
Nothin’ fancy.
Just...

Maybe early
tomorrow night,
before my believin’ gets heavy again.

Maybe?

Sweetheart?