La Siesta

See. There is an image that I often cross by

in a room full of brilliant dull,

things, scattered in a way that seems too familiar.

Every day, I wake up feeling asleep,

as if there is some thorn inside, but not too deep.

But life has to go on

with work from dusk to dawn.

I am a parlous writer,

or at least they pay me to write in the newspaper.

Writing through a hot afternoon,

my head down on the table too soon,

in a futile attempt at greatness,

suddenly around me, a familiar coldness.

It was there, right in front of me, that image,

of someone writing, but this time, that someone looked, at me directly,

no eyes, no face, no lines,

tremoring, I woke up at another table,

and someone looking at me,

but that someone is me,

and I am no more.