It’s 9 o’clock my time
barely three for you
but it’s no matter
we’re decades apart —
not hours —
only ghosts
here in the library
where I race to find
the book
I need you to read
before the alarm goes off
and I wake to the day
where it’s just a fine gold thread
that connects us now.
I pass long tall stacks
of coffee table books and
the bust of Blackstone
in the halls of recorded memory —
yours and mine —
and you seem not to notice
the immediacy of the moment
when I approach with insistence,
your retired posture almost welcome
were it not for the clock ticking
next to me in the bed we used to share,
but by then the words have disappeared
from the pages in your lap
and in exchange, a collage of
nonsensical images
fall to the ground at your feet
rendering me speechless
in that dreamworld way,
paralyzed by all I have left to say,
gasping for moonlit breaths.
Poem and photo ©2025, Jen Payne. The bust in the photo is actually James’ son Timothy but that’s too many syllables. If you like this poem, you’ll love my new book SLEEPING WITH GHOSTS, on sale now!
randomactsofwriting.net 