It's Still Life

I. Poetic Asides: In the (Blank)

In the Squinting Hours

It’s 5am.
November.
Fourth.
It’s pitch-dark,

except for the tangle of light
that the curtain lets through.

I hear the paperboy whose
hair and beard are as grey
as a cloud, and who moves
as slow as words on a page,

and he’s doing his rounds
on his bone-shaking bike,

and there’s a word for this
moment, but it’s pushed
down inside me, and I can’t
for my life think what it is.

II. Miz Quickly’s: 10 words:
November stairs dog sentence effort since required beans wrench careful

It’s Just Another Word

When did God make death such a wrench.

November is a half light of
a decaying moon, and since when
does darkness come so soon.

Since when do lessons come
without effort, and since when
do sentences require questions.

Beans are cooking in the pot,
simmering away ethos and
pathos, and epos, and I still

hear her footsteps on the stairs,
I still smell the scent of wet dog.

And what do I do with a word like careful.

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These poems/prose are draft versions, written in participation of Miz Quickly’s prompts and Writers’ Digest (Poetic Asides) November poem-a-day challenge. The aim: to produce a chapbook for submission. ©Misky 2022 Shared with #amwriting on Twitter. Image: AI produced ©Misky .