Another Ruined Day

Ruined, I am ruined
by the progress of years.
Each day starts with a token try —
I can’t get out of bed without
great effort which I’d rather be turning
to making love, if I was not alone;
to making art, since I am. What
would I be making? Since you asked,

maybe I’d take up painting, maybe
my old guitar would call me;
maybe I’d just sit and think and write
fantastic thoughts of dragons or something;
of the end of the current
administration at the hands
of the electorate — maybe.

Instead I struggle to the bathroom
and weigh myself, cheering my
tiny poundage loss; I make coffee
on the way to my measurements —
blood sugar, blood pressure — then I dress
and come out to here, to the computer,
to address the world as I see it.

It’s a relief to puzzle
over this dilemma: I’m a mess
of conflicting huge desires and
mundane needs. To wonder
about making love — there it is
again — or rising from bed
at all; why do I bother? Does
making room on the page
do a damn bit of good for
any fantasy I might harbor
for my healed self; does any vision
of my healed self include
any other — or am I lost, lost
alone amid my fantasies?

I don’t know. I sit here
with a cup of coffee and
my dream of self-sustenance.

I don’t know. I sit here
blank inside and nondescript
outside; ruined face, muscles
not firm, most of all
my old eyes — sunken ships.

They look out and see the ocean
as the end of things. They look out
and see no fish, no shells,
nothing but waves overhead
driven by winds unseen
while I sit calmly
at the bottom of the dark ocean
and think of anything at all
that differs from this.

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