Antidote

I don't know how many nights I had tossed and turned. Let's just say there were a lot of them.

So many times, during those restless nights, I would think of something that seemed to be the start of a poem, perhaps ... or a bit of fiction ... something I might do something with, if only I could remember it the next morning.

I never could. The next morning? Gone ... the slate wiped clean ... not a trace of that "great idea" which had nagged me so much the night before.

Aha! The solution? That's explained in the poem.

But it didn't solve the problem I expected it to ... far from it. You'll have to read on to discover what problem was solved:

ANTIDOTE

All those nights

of tossing, turning,

I lay awake wishing

I had pad and pencil

to preserve thoughts

dancing fleetingly

across the ballroom

of my frazzled mind.

When finally one night

I remembered to place

these vital tools

within arm's length,

I went smugly to bed.

And slept like a log.

© 1997

(originally published in Parnassus Literary Journal)

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Today's word: fleetingly