Untitled (any suggestions?)

Written rapidly a few days ago, quasi-edited today. It's probably a still a work in progress. But then again, what isn't?


I worry
That the streetlights flicker while I sleep
Speaking a luminescent code
And they're laughing
Laughing while I sleep
And I'm dreaming in Latin
Or maybe Aramaic
Of bagged lunches and scrapped knees
But I could,
I know I could,
Dream of smudged ink
And hands that smell of turpentine
But I fall asleep to the lull of the bread machine
Whirring and moving its parts
Against the night-silence of an old house

This poem will never be read
Or ripped to pieces
Only yellow between these covers
Grow old, distant, absurd
Climb into a chest of drawers
And when I come around again
Looking for a sweater
Or maybe this
It will be my turn to laugh
Not like the street lights
But like an arthritic cellist
With negligent hands