One step in
Two inches down
Three times I wished
To just let myself drown
Four lines written
Five lines said
Six people screaming
And emphasizing my dread
At seven the apathy sets in
At eight it takes its fill
Nine times I felt strong
Strong enough to kill
Ten ways I can say I love it
Nine times it heard it wrong
At eight, it heard it right
And now it’s long gone
Seven days of feeling empty
And six of missing you
Sometimes I hug my pillow
Just hoping to get through
Five more months of never touching
Four more weeks of wearing masks
Three more days until it resets
So maybe we can sit at a table for two
But that’s just one estimate
***
I have an obsession with number-based poetry, whether consecutively written or just dealing with math. Perhaps this explains my affinity for Harry Baker and simple melodies, because their numbers are always what I can count on. Plus, it combines the childlike yet methodical counting method with bitterness, much like Blake’s Songs of Innocence and Songs of Experience. Ah, one hopes for the density of the population to decrease, both in numbers and minds. Perhaps this poem wouldn’t exist if such a thing occurred.
Alice Griffin Writes 