Not Fun

by Harvest McCampbell

my brain prickles

exhausted

by the very

effort

of straining

for thought

my fingers

falter

stumble

get lost

amongst

themselves

i can not form

the simple

twine

my hands

have woven

since i was

young

my son

enters my

field of view

speaks

the sound of

my voice in

answer

startles me

i am amazed

i can speak

out of the

depth of

this

befuddled

silence

concussion

its not

fun

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This poem is copyright © Feb. 1, 2005, Harvest McCampbell, all rights reserved.
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