My little rage, so neatly kept
within my bedside table drawer,
close to call and quick to come
when the roaring house sleeps
and leaves me, and I, alone—
when lonely consciousness doffs
cap upon cap
upon my bedside table drawer,
and last of all my own
checkered cap I keep,
with streaks of white
and streaks of black,
flat and deformed
and frayed and sour—
now he comes, my little rage,
upon this very hour.
“What? Not asleep?”
he silent speaks to me.
“What? All alone and laying low,
and rather small,
and eyes ached for precious sleep?
Tsk, tsk—these dreams are for another.
Tsk, tsk—sweet evening death
and morning birth
for men in worser need
and more deserved.
Yours is another way.
Yours is a hotter day.
But hush—I know.
We know.
We hear it all,
within our bedside table drawer.
The caps and I,
we spy together.
We lament
the unrelenting, unrepenting
burdens of this laughing world.
We burn inside this table drawer.
We burn at what they do.
We burn at little checked cap.
We burn at you—
at what you let them do,
at what you choose
and do not choose.
We burn at all the world—
this bedside drawer!
We’ll burn right through.
We’ll burn it down.”
And I, with nothing to say—
with words or thought—
ball up my fists
and pop them like hot stones
against my throbbing temples.
I pull at my hair.
I bash my backhead
into soft pillows,
soft pillows I might trade
for cement floors,
trade my family
for cement floors—
pounding on my temple doors.
I’ll stand and pace,
or lie face down upon the floor,
and pound my knees
and groan and moan.
I’ll get dressed and drive somewhere.
I’ll drive and go somewhere.
I’ll sit in that stinking car.
I’ll beat the wheel.
And now I’ll speak—
I’ll yell, I’ll creak and flail—
and I’ll go nowhere.
I’ll go nowhere
because there’s nowhere to be gone,
nowhere but here
with checkered cap,
my only cap,
given to me when I was young.
And with that cap
I bought another
and another one.
I would not buy the next
without the one before.
Then one day, one cap,
it waited like a thief,
and when I set it down that night
it gave me no relief.
A little rage caught fire—
a little rage
that sent me to my coat,
and in a haze
I bought another
and another.
I would not buy
without the one before.
I sighed
and closed my eyes
and slept.
I would not need to fear
the little rage
in my bedside drawer.
I closed my eyes
and wept.
