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 with 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 measure at your
avail (which is no small
amount of measure)
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
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. And so he
snaps out of it. For now.
A beacon of health, for
his age. At this he
chuckles, but softly
enough, and probably
rolls his eyes up under
his lids at the same time.
Then he clenches his fists
just a bit, then shakes them
both out, a one and a two,
gathers about 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 a finite list. (And what
shall he do with such a
notion as this?)
