Just So

So…to begin again
as if there was nothing
to obstruct me. To just start
as if what I acknowledge is a ruse
is truly unreal, purely born of anger.

To close my eyes and think
of roses, hibiscus, chrysanthemums,
and dandelions as figments of
someone’s delusions — not mine.
(Mine don’t exist; I’m sure of them.)

So: to close my eyes, again,
before this darkness
as a blank slate — back in school
and staring at black, at green,
down at color in my hand.

To sigh at once and throw it
in petulance, in resignation,
then — to firm myself up.
Pick up a fresh piece, all white,
and set it against the board — just

so, knowing that I will write
is inconsequential, that what I shall write
is inconsequential. What I do
will not matter to anyone. I suppose
roses and mums may notice, perhaps.

Anything to brace them up,
keep them alive. So. Just so.

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