My left hand wears a glove
from fingertips to elbow.
My left foot wears a sock
that does the same.

They aren’t, in truth,
doing this. From the outside
I look exactly as I always have
except I rarely smile. Take that,
disbelievers, take that.

My left neck holds my head
that won’t tell me my name
stubbornly, much of the time.
Less time than it used to take,
but still. It’s like islands decreasing slowly,
ever so slowly.

I’m tired
of the pace.
It is never going away…

still. Yet again
the cat sleeps near me
and does the same as she always does
and did. Still

I’m the same person, am I not,
except I never smile
and it takes me forever
to pick up anything that’s fallen
and I sit for hours and hours
doing nothing, desperately healing;
in a race to do something, anything
normal, appropriate,
casually correct.

Take that, beloved, take that.

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

Dark oatmeal, the color of the chair
I sit in to begin the day.

Fire leaves me breathless; water more so
if I am immersed. Air is my element in the chair.

The chair responds slightly to my back and forth.
I rock a small amount, but mostly sit still and breathe.

I am earthbound and this is killing me, this chair.
It’s a throne, an execution throne. They will find me here,

absolutely still when they find me in the dark
oatmeal chair. I will have stopped completely.

Finally, the earth will have me and that will be that.
I’ll go on of course. You won’t be able to tell.

Have a meal for me, won’t you? I will share
whatever you offer. Joy or sadness will all be the same

to me, as will a bowl
of oatmeal — dark, filled with blueberries,

agave, cinnamon. It will be good
and all I can handle; all I can fulfill

as a promise to you. You will think
of me when you eat it. You will smile.

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

I’m sorry. I haven’t been
myself. Instead
I’ve been a rotted old chair. Half
soft, half brittle, and ready to collapse
this side of the finish line.

I’m sorry. I’m almost
finally done. Instead
I’ve been a sodden old table. Half
chewed up, half dilapidated, and ready
to creak to beyond the end.

I’m finally sorry, almost
completely finished. Instead
I am a thought — an incomplete
thought. It never ended,
never finished, never completed.

This whole world is cheering.
I am over halfway to an end
and I’m sorry. I will not.
I can’t complete the circuit
and despite the cheering,

I am ending like this.

““““““““““““““““““““““““““““““
onward,
T