Did you imagine this when you were young — that one day you’d be sitting, crippled by age and poor circulation, and be wondering about what was left?
Did you imagine this — that you’d be sitting, head wobbling on its post, and be certain that whatever comes next, you would break in its teeth like a sad nut or an old fruit?
Did you think of this — a rubber band on your wrist, snapped till it hurts, can make your life wince for hours?
~~~~~~~~~~~~
onward, T
I said I wouldn’t post a poem
today, and I lied;
said I would not say a bad thing about
the President, and
I lied;
did not complain about
a dearth of songbirds outside,
and I told the truth — at least I think so,
as the windows are all closed
but I don’t see them in their
accustomed places or hear
the songs and calls;
I said so much
about today, but it has not
come to pass at all.
I sit here in the moment
between a poem and the now
of realizing its wasted chance,
and I should weep for it
and the time I’ve wasted
but I’m listening for birds
and hating the President
and all the space
I could have used
for a poem
is lost to me.
Perhaps you could use it?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
onward,
T
Dark Matter 