Detached

Tuesday
has yet to click into place.
Birds fall silent after the dawn chorale,
the squirrel’s chattering on his usual rock,
and I can’t decide what to do:
go back to bed for a while,
or start working.

This week hurts more
than I’d planned for.
Money’s tight, I’m alone again,
and while there’s a pretty world
out there to astound me,
it seems I can’t breathe deeply enough
to take it all into me, let it expand me,
open me to something greater than myself.

Perhaps I should be silent too today,
take the birds as mentors —

eh.  I am not good with mentors,
with being advised.  I’ve given up on
therapy, listening, pills, meditation,
exercise, thoughtful contemplation
of what others have said.  All I’ve got left
is a keyboard and a lust
for getting me out there,

instead of letting what’s out there
come in. 

Believe me, you must believe me:
there was a time when I could have told you
the names of all the minerals in the rock
that squirrel is using for his soapbox.
There was a time when I knew
what I stood for, and upon;
a time when I knew how
to be awake.