After Paul Simon’s “America”
by Harry Calhoun

My wife and I are napping on an overcast pre-spring day
shortly after work has slapped me in the face with another
job-rating ignominy, and with the weekend to heal it almost over

I turn to her and snuggle like a little boy into her warmth
and while we’re not on a bus but only journeying
into the afternoon peace of gentle sleep, I remember the lyrics

to “America,” and I think, “Trina, I’m lost,” although I know she
is sleeping, I’m empty and aching and I know she is the answer.
Or I am, but she is there to help, and I go upstairs to work out

answers to this latest mess like Paul Simon did, writing through it,
going to look for himself if not for America, admitting he was lost
only when his companion was asleep. Courage comes hard

and maybe only when one is half asleep, but the admission
might be half the game. And the admission of needing the other
might be the other half. Trina, I’m lost. Wake up, the weekend is almost over.

Harry Calhoun has had work published at odd poetry whistlestops for the past 30 years. His books and chapbooks include The Black Dog and the Road, Something Real, Near Daybreak, with a Nod to Frost and Retreating Aggressively into the Dark. Recently, he has had two Pushcart nominations, a Sundress Best of the Net nomination and publications in Chiron Review, Abbey, Orange Room Review, Gutter Eloquence and others. His latest chapbook, The Insomnia Poems, is just out and selling briskly. Well, selling, at least.

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