Inner Thoughts on a Stoop

by thom amundsen

I talk to my dad once in awhile,

outside I watch the moon rise.


I can feel the chill of the stars beguile

my need to figure out, to realize


just who I am and why I seem this way.

I wonder sometimes if he is chuckling


oh that boy, his ideas always seem to sway

upon the needs of the day, such begging.


I really wish sometimes I could know

looking at the dew drawn grass I weep.


Lacks real answer only the streetlight below

to remind me of the twilight and sleep;


the cold of the concrete settling icily on me

my eyes are tired with the weight of indecision.


I look to the night sky and watch the stars eery

that speak of only reality as a constant reflection.


Dad will you tell me what to do so I can feel alive

while the world continues on trying to suggest,


we are all part of a frail bunch of humans that survive

an imaginary world that seems to laugh in jest.

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