A Warm Day In January

It’s a warm day for January
and after I do my morning chores
I sit and do little for an hour or two
until I get up and do a little more.

Meanwhile the inherent spark
of memory and loss of same
continues to haunt me until
I get up and do a little more.

I could get up. I could make
breakfast. I could do all kinds
of small things, vary them between
crucial and trivial. I could always

get up and do a little more
but I have no memory to speak of
and my left hand is bad between
the wrist and the fingers. I can’t

get up and do anything, anything
at all, let alone a little more. Instead
I listen to the birds, the wind, the heat
clicking on and off and on again.

I could get up and do a little more.
In its place I will think about it and sit
still, close my ruined eyes, damning
every thing and the spirit of everything

until I fall asleep, dead to this world
and all others, thinking of a day when
I can do it all and a little more
but it is a day that will not come.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
onward,
T