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AT THE FAR END OF LETHARGY
By Quentin Smith
After a long, cruel defeat at ping-pong
I am lost to the night, and to the world.
With intangible chains dragging behind my feet
I mount step upon step up the staircase.
Like a streetlight smothered in fog
The dirty bulb oozes out its gleam,
Illuminating in doubtful tones the bathroom.
I peel clothes, one by one, from sweat-encased limbs
And half step, half drift into the shower.
As the ragged women of the slums
Dream of gaudy robes and chandeliers,
So I, with water streaming down my chest
Think of swimming in a molten pond
Of hot liquid diamonds.
The fetid water, smelling of a swamp,
Gushes out of the red-rusted faucet
And blusters onto my head.
Afterwards, I sit in a long cold room
And with a pen in my fingers I ponder
The theme of my long unwritten poem.
But now, at evening’s end, the once-inspiring thought
Of rivers flowing under stars of wonder
Crawls like a worm through the hollows of my head.
Written 1973
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