A thousand and ten pages <br />Of Allen Ginsberg's writings <br />Bound in heavy solitude, squat beside the bed <br />The window sheets are white, Leonard Cohen's monotone <br />Harmonising to a Casio <br />Sweet Angel Words, unfinished poems and rhyme <br />Are sown in leaves of magazines <br />Strewn on pull-out, tear-off sheets <br />Inviting your subscription, although you have subscribed. <br /> <br />By snow surrounded, cornered on all sides <br />The taunts of immobility <br />Wild animals and ice, neighbours hover out of sight <br />Sensing blood and vulnerability <br />Resentment of the rentiers <br />Who integrate the drive. <br />So leave alone <br />Don't raise up or speed-dial with the phone <br />Do not disturb the sacred private life. <br /> <br />I wait for Monday, when the bus will run <br />The ice must melt, under the dawn's red sky, <br />Trace a map, create a pathway <br />For unseen escape <br />Into the world, white-collar crowd and crime. <br />Monday delays, ignores the laws of time <br />Emboldened by the sun in the skylight <br />Aspires to melt the white encrusted coat <br />That cloaks the silence in a lonely sign.<br /><br />Frank Bana<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/pretensions-to-solitude/
