Acorns Rolling Off the Roof
by Kathleen Kirk
It’s the middle of the night, and I can’t sleep.
Having a little wine, to be done, then down.
Noises like footsteps, acorns rolling off the roof,
and a car door slams, somebody else up and around.
I wish I had told you, that time in the café,
how it is with me now. Your hair had gone whiter,
you needed a trim, and I didn’t notice it then
till you told me. Maybe that’s why I was too quiet.
There’s trouble I can’t solve. It’s in you, it’s in me.
People don’t know how to talk to each other anymore.
Did they ever? They learned when they wrote letters.
People don’t know how to love each other anymore.
They say foxes roam this neighborhood at night,
looking for rabbits, and possums, and skunks.
They say coyotes come here, too, happy with roadkill
and garbage. I might wait up for the songbirds.
It’s the middle of the night, and I can’t sleep.
Having a little wine, to be done, then down.
Noises like footsteps, acorns rolling off the roof,
and a car door slams, somebody else up and around.
I wish you had told me, that time in the café,
how it is with you now. My hair has gone whiter,
I’m happy with nothing, and you didn’t notice it then
till I told you. Maybe I’m just not a fighter.
They say people fly when they dream of flying,
fall in their falling dreams. The trick is not to land.
They say lovers hear each other calling, in the night,
when they’re apart. The trick is not to answer.
There’s trouble I can’t solve. It’s in you, it’s in me.
People don’t know how to talk to each other anymore.
Did they ever? They learned when they wrote letters.
People don’t know how to love each other anymore.
Copyright © 2009 by Kathleen Kirk.
Author’s note: This poem is structured after Leonard Cohen’s “Famous Blue Raincoat.”