Scribbling Sensations
When I turn other things off,
I hear the air-conditioner hum with tiny teeth
I hear assurance from the fan beside my bed
I see the vertical textures in the lampshade of
The lamp that doesn’t work
I see a hat, purchased for walking, set cockeyed upon
The corner of a vintage-mirror frame
I feel soft touches as I type;
I hear the tapping of the keys upon the board,
Like Poe’s raven upon my chamber door
While my nose is in it, I smell and taste the coffee,
Hot enough for its vapor mildly to campaign
With warmth through my sinuses
I feel pain—more intense without distraction
I blink: I cannot hear it, though I know the upper lid
Has fallen on the lower (which will give a little)
and will rise and fall again
While other things are off,
I sense the world anew;
And, largely—like Genesis and Weldon Johnson’s
Work—I think it’s good
clcouch123 
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