the itch (a worried man ramble)

I believe
that I’ve begun to see
the ending
of the world

leaves that fall
will not regrow

and I can feel
the scratch
of itchy fingers
that need to rub
on triggers


I go to work
despite myself
in the morning

it’s still black dark

I wonder:
what am I doing?
when I arrive

the madhouse that I work in
I understand it well
the bread I put on my table
gets buttered

but when I look out
beyond the walls
I work within
at lunatics
I feel an itch
creeping up
in my finger


and I wonder:
what of you?
will I ever see you

there’s no guarantee
this day will last
till teatime

when I have watched the pictures
of a military rocket rise
it always seems to me
to move
very slowly

I hope
the next one up
takes long enough
that I get to hold you
before night falls


and then
I look around
and I look around
and the button looms large
in my mind

I see it
by its colour:
a shade of high-gloss and red
that’s when I feel
an itch start
in my finger

I look around again
and try to point my rifle-mind
that’s flowing over with bullets
made of what I’m thinking

if I locate
the button man
I think I’m going to scratch
the itching
in my finger

and if I locate
the other button man
I think
I’m going to scratch
the itching in these
my fingers

© Frank Prem, 2017

August 2017 Poem #15: new fruit (the eggvacado)

17 thoughts on “the itch (a worried man ramble)

  1. Brilliant! I don’t see a link to share this on Facebook and perhaps you would rather not have it there. But if you did I would share it. This really says it all but is says it so much better than what all the others are saying about this topic.

    Liked by 1 person

  2. Everyday it gets worse. I hope you all realize we as Americans feel the same fear. It’s as if I’m back in my little one room school house doing a duck and cover drill. Only then I thought it would save me. I wish for that innocence again.

    Liked by 1 person

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