Trifle Poem by r james sterzinger

except for the year
of dissolution
and one trip
to the mad house
I have lived twenty-one years
on this corner.

no one really knows me
and this cold winter
the trees and the sky
remain silent to me.
something usually speaks
to me...at winter

it tells me
'hold on hold on'
there isn't that voice now
but I do hear voices my dear
Josephine
it says:
'let's end this nonsense.'

I stare out my window this morning
it is so damned white
and where I write
my books suffocate me
their words choke
I feel them grate against my skin

I need a cup of tea
and silence
maybe I'll walk
among the dead flowers and trees
and mourn my passing
either today or tomorrow.

and in the obits
no one will still know me
I only know myself