ARMISTICE

Sick and tired of ‘sick and tired,’

of a war raging within myself,

I decided to end the partying,

in advance of full marriage with my pen.

My lover, Poetry, pointing angrily at her watch,

fed up with my inability to make love on paper.

The party had lasted longer than I expected.

Enough money in booze and dope

to feed the homeless of Ottawa for several years.

Not that I wanted to kiss tombstones,

though in fact planting one,

killing myself one day at a time,

yet somehow convinced I was the world's best poet.

And once the confetti in my head had cleared,

rediscovered brain cells I hadn't used in years,

I found the chemistry again at every corner;

the clean kind, the dirty kind, the somewhere in-between,

all three fighting for my soul,

but only one now willing to pay full price.

And it was then that I knelt before a higher power,

watching yesterday slip into the freshly dug grave.

Hard to believe, I had changed my playground, playmates,

playthings; finally read the instructions on the cereal box

from so long I had refused to eat.

Those who thought they'd always know me,

standing open mouthed at one clock stopped, another started,

and with the first, the ticking of laughter.

The theatres spoke of a ‘Dead Poets Society,’

and some no doubt would be standing in line,

trying better to understand.

How could they though? when I had been studying myself

without success far too long.

My bride and I driving off into tomorrow,

leaving only a trail of ink to find us.

© 1993 Chris Sorrenti