Platonism

This poem wasn’t meant to be written
at 3:24 a.m. (according to my red-eyed
electric alarm clock) I don’t think it was
meant to be written at all.

I couldn’t find the pen
beneath all the books
which habitually surround my bed.
My cigarette diminished and died,
abandoned breathless in the ashtray.
The corner of the duvet drank tea
in the feckless candlelight…

and the woman by my side
so easily asleep -
provoking my insomnia
- shifted, and spoke.
I found my pen,
cautioned sleep to my friend,
and started to write,
rather than seduce.
Averting a disaster.


(c) Liz Willows 2000