He sits at his desk,
Writing a so-called poem.
His attention wanders,
And he looks through the yellow curtain.
The sky is grey,
The color of a neglected tombstone,
The trees shake in the breeze.
Literally shake. They shiver.
The heating is not on
And he can feel the chill.
Right now he wishes he lived by a hot beach.
Although deep down he knows
He wouldn't be happy there either.
Discontent rottens his core.
And he cannot understand why.
He has it all.
The beautiful adoring wife,
The outstanding kids,
His dream house,
His dream job,
And the list goes on and on.
He scolds himself.
The dark sky today
Reminds him
That maybe, just maybe,
He wouldn't be happy in his beloved Ireland either.
And finally, at the age of forty-four,
He realises he's where he was always meant to be.
That his life is as good or even better
Than all those imaginary ones he's never lived.
He simply needs to open his eyes wide
And smile.
Author Notes
I'm reading a book called The Midnight Library that a student recommended and that, plus sitting in front of the computer, looking through the yellow curtain (yes, it's yellow, very yellow, my favourite happy colour) and looking inside me at the same time gave birth to this 'poem'.
I'm not forty-four and I'm not a man, but much of the rest is adorned non-fiction.
There are no stanzas, but I've done it on purpose.
Maybe the song below is also about regrets. I'll let you be the judge of that.
