The day starts mid-thought
with a sharp barb I cannot reach
piercing somewhere on my back,
a spot that moves like an itch
and though I rub and rub
along every metaphorical fence post
I come across, the irksome pain lingers.
I don’t look for labels, though I suspect
it’s a form of fear, longing, and regret
mixed in a brine causing me to wake
in a melancholy stew.
My dreams are of flight.
I mostly fall in REM sleep.
Awake, I trip a lot
and look to the skies
in long and aimless daydreams.
Always, the phantom pain on my back
pushes me forward.
Maybe an angel watches.