But am I optimistic?
I like to think.
The pages of a much-relished book
drawn to its close. Something I
take a break from
just for a little more time. My
heart hurts. Perhaps it’s gas,
and I get this now and again,
but like today,
sometimes enough to worry.
Will I wake tomorrow?
Why should I be anything but
grateful. Life is good,
no matter what the pundits say.
I pick the book back up
and here’s another poem,
short,
and not until the end
do I realize it’s in rhyme,
ABABCC. I reread it
and listen to the white noise
hovering over this
all-too-depleted workspace.
Work is what (albeit oft as
redundant as rhyme
and riddled with an anxiety
almost as good as death’s)?
Nothing so good as a
few words pertaining to
nothing at all, a diversion,
two solid panes
between me and the
aquamarine delusions
of the bay on a summer’s
day. As always, I’m
making too much of it. I’ll
be here again tomorrow,
mowing the same grass,
whiling away the hours
in my aspic-colored slacks.
