Two Poems | by Christopher Scribner

Last Minute Agenda

Awake, reach over groping,
but find just sheets and air.
Cast about through bedroom’s darkness.
Gather t-shirt from the floor,
pull it on with even odds
it’s not backwards but nope –
withdraw arm,
rotate shirt and reinsert.

Stumble downstairs, what’s the day?
steady dizziness with rail.
Open notebook, turn to Muse,
come to find she hit the snooze;
besides, my fountain pen is lost.
Turn on TV to blunt the silence;
sounds can’t reach
the cavern core.

Trudge upstairs and footsteps echo;
loose the shower’s water,
stand beneath before
it’s warm enough.
Squeeze body wash into palm;
rub that unguent
onto chest, over heart.
Wait, another coat.

Choose shampoo from tiny
bottles hoarded
from hotel rooms,
desperate hedge
against a future where
being without
is unbearable.
Step out and towel off.

In the kitchen,
fridge is vacant,
dirty dishes crowd
the sink; pop the toast and eat it dry, nuke
old coffee, choke it down.
Go pick up mother-in-law,
and drive to her
daughter’s funeral.


I once abhorred
conversations where you
talked to me without moving

your eyes.
Now icy, those eyes
slip away, abandon

me as I teeter
between who I am
and who

I am with you,
a busker craving
intimacy, a far-

thing tossed my way.
You crowd me
with loneliness

I cannot escape.
The only relics
of our past:

scabs of devotion
on my knees
as I wait

in vain, swallowing
and breathing
to death.




Christopher Scribner is a Pushcart Prize nominee whose poetry has appeared in Euphony, The Quarterday Review, Light, Parody, Untamed Ink, Rat’s Ass Review, and other publications. He completed his MFA at Lindenwood University, where he also teaches psychology.


One Comment Add yours

  1. macaw51 says:

    I love your poems, Chris. Great going!


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