Us Motherless Men
I woke up just before 8 on a Sunday
without a voice singing Happy Birthday
at that time where I entered this existence.
Everyone in their beds while I scooched
past the pooch to stare at the older man
staring back at me in that dim night light.
There’s a growing list of acquaintances
who find this celebration hard for grins
as we travel along, us motherless men.
Maybe This Will Be the Last Time
after James Benger
The rain’s still falling
even on the inside.
Each clock’s hands gone dead
like maybe it’s time to unwind.
My pockets are filled with empty promises
I use when dead presidents aren’t found.
Come & give me your mind if I’m still around,
but knowing you through verse, I think you understand.
We’re all trying to find a place to sleep
& a little bit of that lost sunshine.
Some of us hope not to wake,
but maybe this will be the last time.
Bio: Tim Heerdink is the author of Somniloquy & Trauma in the Knottseau Well, The Human Remains, Red Flag and Other Poems, Razed Monuments, Checking Tickets on Oumaumua, Sailing the Edge of Time, I Hear a Siren’s Call, Ghost Map, A Cacophony of Birds in the House of Dread, and short stories, The Tithing of Man and HEA-VEN2. His poems appear in various journals and anthologies. He is the President of Midwest Writers Guild of Evansville, Indiana.
Fevers of the Mind 
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