too sore to wash the other,
each foot biting hard
with each step,
brain on perpetual fire
in a stubborn fog
that won’t burn off.
This is how I live.
Right now I can picture
my guitar in the next room,
waiting. Can see and hear
the expectant amplifier.
Despite the example of all
those still-playing classic rockers,
they’re whispering to me
that I really should be
younger than I am, and less sore,
and depression at my age
is not romantic — as if it was
when I was younger,
as if I didn’t know that
way back then.
As if I’d never said good bye
to someone, unsure if it was for
the last time; as if that was not
melancholic, but terrifying, every time.
Alright, say the instruments: all righty, then,
are you getting up and limping toward us
once again as you always have in spite of
all your damned pains and grave desires?
There are still places I want to go,
even if I am less and less sure
of how long it will take
and if perhaps I will not get there.
Here I come: stumbling, cursing
my wracked hands and feet, cursing
the dead weight of mood and brain.
Hello, I respond. Here I come. Yes.