National Poetry Writing Month, Day #18

Today’s prompt is to write a poem ‘that incorporates “the sound of home.” Think back to your childhood, and the figures of speech and particular ways of talking that the people around you used, and which you may not hear anymore.’ This prompt did not particularly call to mind much, so my poem ends up taking a different turn, into a random recollection.

To this day, I don’t know what a boozdo is
but I’m sure he wasn’t supposed to do that just now

No matter
He won’t put anything over on me
I’ve got on my rough ’n’ readies
and my bell-bottom jeans

(no tenny-runners today, thank you very much)

I used to be fascinated by the digital clock
in the allergist’s office
the seconds constantly turning
every minute taking the big number next door
along with it
I would watch it
whenever my mind wandered
during the boring conversation
going on next to me

We always walked out of there
with a small envelope
with big pills in it
(Meprobamate, the handwriting read)
Did they have to be cut in half first?
I can’t remember anymore
The conversations always bored me
I ended up watching the numbers change
on the digital clock
in the allergist’s office

(18 April 2016)


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