mmmcmxxiv

The Wounded Optimist

A confluence of

misfortune had me—

it has had me, hasn’t it?—

for far too long. Still, I am

stuck in its craw. Also, here I am,

the victor who traded in a tragedic

downfall for nearly a decade of

comedic pratfalls. Oh, shut up!

Go ahead and tell them straight

that you spent your third

afternoon within a year

at the emergency room.

And dispense with the

suspense, suggesting

once again the most

transparent approach:

that a month ago today

you had surgery to rid

yourself of something

scary (note the practice

you have of being vague),

and that you are, while still

officially recuperating,

by all measures at your

avail (which are no small

amount of measurements)

free and clear of that

scary something. Of

that inevitability. And

so I make this clear to

at least myself. And in

doing so, why do I find

myself back at the

beginning, at a

confluence of

misfortune?

Ever the

skeptic,

the optimist

rises, looks around,

breathes deeply inward,

exhales softly until seemingly

devoid of oxygen, of air, of that

life-giving force, and there he

freezes, momentarily, for long

enough to hear nothing but the

beating of his heart. He stands

there, here, long enough to notice

that he’s hungry, as well. And to

realize, as always (as always)

that there is so much that

must be done. Aw, that he

thinks he needs to do. And so

he snaps out of it. For now.

A beacon of health, for

his age. At this last phrase

he chuckles, but softly

enough, and probably

rolls his eyes full up beneath

his lids simultaneously. Then

he clenches his fists just a bit,

shakes them both out after,

a one and a two,

gathers his focus,

and places most of it

on those tasks at hand,

with the faintest notion

somewhere at the perimeter

of his focus that the seemingly

endless list at which he must so

maim with checks and slashes

is but and always a finite list. 

(And what shall he do with such 

a peripheral notion as this?)