As part of National Poetry month, Bob Simola offers an exhibit of ekphrastic poetry in the printmakers' studio.
The Witching Hour
It’s midnight and the . . . Shhh. Don’t interrupt.
It’s midnight in your soul, your coal-black soul
you little monster. . . just because it is.
It’s midnight. I don’t care what time it is.
Forget about the sun. Well shade your eyes.
Pretend the sun is gone. Pretend it’s night.
It’s midnight and you’re standing in the rain.
Oh very well. You’re sleeping in your bed,
but it is raining and you’re getting wet.
Because the bed is sitting in the rain.
Of course it isn’t silly. I can put
your bed wherever, and it’s sitting in the rain.
Because it’s there. It’s midnight in the rain
and you, you little monster, you are wet.
And monsters . . . Yes, of course you’re still asleep.
I don’t know why. You’re soaking wet. Asleep.
Because I say that you are still asleep.
It isn’t silly. Fine then, go and play.
But it is midnight and you’re soaking wet.