I've been working on a poem about this very thing on and off for the last 20 years or so.... I thought I'd share it here...(I've written so many versions of this...I don't think it's finished yet...)
unbecoming
within the high, cool walls of speech my feet follow saturday
from the dark hallway into blinding light
out to stillness and back again
my hands complete a ritual that is not mine
a staccato code from below
a punctuated kitchen prologue
keeps me on course
metal striking metal
wood flung against wood
meandering in the air
a wild dog in the rising heat
my skin itches
and then like that nightmare
the one where you run smack into the thing that terrifies you the most
and you wonder how you can be dreaming this again
the deep saturday ringing is there
penetrating my skin
my bones
my brain
its meaning shocking my insides
and even then I know
(a hoof strikes cobblestone
I am sure of it
one and then another and another
a cascade of raindrops on tin
sharp
windblown
going somewhere)
I listen for the rushing sound
slippered quiet on the stairs
the sun grows mute on the dresser top
and I wonder what I am holding