Listening to old music,
wearing old clothes, thinking
old thoughts…enveloped in
a sort of sorrow that’s more like
dread, more like the flowers
on the orchid that have been
outrageous for weeks, show no sign
of fading and falling but
you expect them to go soon;

you are surprised
to find yourself licking your lips
knowing you’ll go outside soon
to the disasters that await —
the unfamiliar car, the new horror times
with your mother and sister,
the long, knuckle-driving drag
back and forth;

listening to old music, your old
clothes, your old thoughts —
but this, right now, is good, is nice;
is only troubled by anticipation
of dealing when you don’t want to
and can’t really; still, you hum along
and sing where you remember the words
and pick at your clothes, thinking
of how you will change them soon.

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