Misanthrope

From the warmth of a Sunday
bed, I hear church bells calling
the penitent to prayer.

I roll over and cover my head
with the pillow I'm allergic
to , more in need of rest
than salvation.

On waking, I will only lull my
mind with heedless thoughts,
somnolent lullabies that keep
the edges dull and manageable.

Hush, hush-

Right this second news
is being made, but it is
in the vague land of
Elsewhere.

Elsewhere cannot affect me.

Here, where I've been taught
that life desires the kind
of girl who tears at the
throat of the world with
sparkly, perfect teeth.

That isn't me.

I am the girl walking with left
shoes in pairs on tired feet,
lacking direction.

I am the girl dreaming vividly,
living anonymously, dedicating
songs to herself so that
sound waves at least, will
speak her forgotten name.

Hush, hush-

The church bells ring offering a promise:

You can believe in anything before you wake.