Bug in the Room

6 Apr

I used to say
if someone spilled
coffee
on the other side
of the room,
I would feel guilty
merely standing
in the doorway.

It’s still true
today,
forty-six years
into my life.

Guilt is a rock
in my throat
or a flutter
in my chest
or a vice
gripping both temples.
It is a chameleon.
It often mimics
whatever virus or flu
is currently
traveling through
my community.

It is stealth.
It is slippery.
It is familiar
like a bear
sitting
stuffed
on my bed.

It is no longer
welcome
but I don’t think

There’s a pill
yet
or a surgery
yet
to remove it
so
I wait
for it
to slip away
on its own.

Eventually,
mostly,
it does,

and
as long as I
do not enter
the room
while it’s still
running amuck,

if I can
remain standing
in the doorway,
I will see
clearly
that it’s not
a part of me
even when it
claims to be
mine.

20141016_114655

*  *  *

National Poetry Writing Month

30 poems in 30 days

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2 Responses to “Bug in the Room”

  1. Alexandra Rosas (@GDRPempress) April 7, 2015 at 1:42 pm #

    I love this kind of prose/poetry. The kind that anyone is able to enter, understand, and exit with a feeling of a shared experience. Thank you.

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