Shifting Up And Out

I shift my position in bed
a little. One word or perhaps
a compound word drifts in:
“gear-friendly.” What the hell
that means is obscured
by a pressing need to get up
and piss;

I think of all the places
I need to be today, think of
all the places where I can’t go;
think of having to think about
shifting gears thoughtfully
to get there. I think, don’t
feel anymore. My feelings
are not mine to play with
anymore.

“Gear-friendly”
comes swimming back up
like a dying fish. Damned
if I understand it. I feel nothing
about it.

I pour myself
another cup of coffee. I think again
about everyone I know
who has died recently — shit, there
I go, thinking again. I will feel
someday, but not today; there
are too many thoughts
crowding in, all pleading,
“pick me! Pick me!”

as if it mattered in some way,
some fashion unknown to me;
as if it mattered at all
what a mind-cripple like me
thinks about first thing
in the morning instead of
just getting up and getting
to it; shifting those friendly gears
to back up
and then shifting up
to go forward;
forever shifting up and up;
shifting up
without thought.

Just go.

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