After the Bleak Is
Gone
And what a joke. I
plead
ignorant almost every
morning – apologies
to Rodney, to Madoc,
for example, in the
general direction of
the wind, which is
warm and romantic.
Chatting all day with
folks never met, avoid-
ing those on the street
with whom I’m acquaint-
ed (sometimes intimately).
I’ve got it good and haven’t
a clue how to use it.
But I
slap myself in the middle
of the night (while jumping
out of bed with a bout of
acid reflux so intense I’m
afraid I’ve already choked
to death on it).
Twice in
one night. Once in a
blue
moon. Not to mention
panic attacks in the throes
of broad wakefulness
common enough for
extended prescriptions,
although they’ve sim-
mered down as of late.
Why not encourage a
flirtatious side. But
what misguided gripes
and somber slippages!
If taunted, childlike,
reply in kind only
for the joy of aging
gracelessly. A
reminder of a
blank slate.
I’ve said nothing
about the sweater
I’m wearing today.
It is a colorful oddity
that glides along a
gothic retrospective.
