There is not a lot to speak of:
first, my skin is a problem —
of sorts; there’s more of it,
it seems, than there used to be;
my body grows weary
of carrying it in sagging bags
around, but in the long span
of time I’ve had with it,
it seems to have been just enough.

There is not a lot to speak of,
once again: my mind is a problem —
it seems not to behave as I wish,
pushes things to the back that ought
to be upfront and makes room for them
by discarding thoughts and concepts
and actual emotions wholesale; still,
what is left carries me through a day
and a week and the years without much
in the realm of lasting complaint;
it seems to have been just enough.

So there’s not a lot to speak of
here; my existence seems to be a problem
for others who keep expecting
me to improve, to get back, to fall back
into some line they’ve conjured
from a rigid book —
if that book has ever been published;
I doubt its proclaimed author even knows of
its rumored existence and would laugh and laugh
at the story — but what do I know?
I’m just here for the course of study, as it were;
just here for the final exam, such as it is;
just here at last for the last warmth
of the last light of the last day,
and that’s going to have to be enough.

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