Wednesday, February 10, 2016

Drip: A New Poem By Stephanie Mesler

Building a new website is hard work and it will take a while to get this one up to the standard to which I built my others.  This is partly due to me not being a technophile.  I really have a steep learning curve with regard to setting up and turning it into a useful vehicle for my written works.  I hope you all will tell me when there are things I could improve here (and when there are things I am doing well).

My intent is to use StephanieMeslerWrites as a place for showcasing, exploring, and sharing my work.  I also hope it comes to be a venue for getting closer to my readers.  If you enjoy and benefit from what you find here, please tell others.  Forging new friendships is the surest way for an indie author, such as myself, to build her audience.  In gratitude for your continued support and friendship, I'd like to share a recent poem with you.  I have to admit it's not the prettiest ditty I've ever written.  It is, in fact, sort of yucky.  Frankly, I've had a nasty bug for a couple of weeks and the poem reflects the yuckiness of recent reality mixed with a fair amount of character-driven fiction.


By Stephanie Mesler

Tissues litter the floor at my side of the bed;
I stay there, careful not to spread my girth into my lover’s territory,
even though he sleeps on the couch to avoid
the plague..drip, drip, dripping…
oozing out of me, like so much bay bottom slime.
Green tells me it's contagious.
The hack tells everyone I pass on the sidewalk
plodding my miserable way from home to fluorescent office in a dingy city
on the eleventh floor of a drab edifice filled with worker ants and drones.
I look down on asphalt dotted with moving specks of color.
Umbrellas protect hair from rain;
Shoes are destroyed by rivulets of grey that drip, drip, drip
forming oceans too wide to be avoided.
Rain forms in clouds above, pure in the heights,
passes through smog.
Gruel splatters onto the world and runs grungy downriver and out to sea.
The clock ticks, never striking the hour,
eternally on its way to the end of day…
or days.. whichever comes first,
neither coming fast enough,
And now there are tissues filling the basket beneath my desk.
My cube mate has moved to the lobby, determined not to be stricken by
disease that drip, drip, drips from me like filthy oil from an untended motor.
She wishes I’d stayed home but knows it was not possible,
knows she will also come to work when it is her turn to drip.
No one intentionally wastes a sick day on being sick.
We horde them for yellow days when the streets are clean and the river runs clear.
Five o’clock aboard the train, tissues in the pockets of my shabbiest raincoat,
I smell of menthol and medicine. I sweat,
malady drip, drip, dripping from my ashen face.
Kick wet shoes against the wall and wrap myself in terry cloth.
He will make supper which I will eat at a distance to protect him from contagion.
I will wash my own dishes and place them where he will know they are condemned.
In bed, I will watch grim dramas, paying no attention, so that they elide into non-memory.
The pile of tissues will grow as I drip, drip, drip to sleep.

Drip is copyright © 2016 Stephanie Mesler.