The Most Common Time
The Most Common Time - Poetry of the Times
Death comes Monday morning, 9 a.m.
Nothing prepares you, a foot starts to shake
Wild as a storm cloud in hard north wind.
Cold sweat on your forehead raises the stakes.
Nothing prepares you, a foot starts to shake
While sun on pale earth dismisses the frost.
Cold sweat on your forehead raises the stakes,
Your mind in the garden, denying all loss.
While sun on pale earth dismisses the frost,
Trees nail shadows to the walls of your home,
Yet your mind roams the garden, denying all loss.
Pain crushes your chest, you fall toward the phone,
Trees nail shadows to the walls of your home.
Wild as storm clouds in a hard north wind,
Pain crushes your chest. You fall by the phone.
Death comes Monday morning, 9 a.m.
Read more of Dr. Berlin's work.
