The grim spring of my old age
April May is a time to be born and
I sit there like a plant expecting the sun to shine
in the rain..
Where to find comfort in this world? My mother
died long ago. I should dig her up. I should
hold her close. I remember the comfort I
felt on her lap driving down the street, cars splashing us.
Maybe if I still smoked cigarettes. The first drag
and I was a baby again. Just thinking about
it made me start to cough.
Maybe comfort is too much to ask.
You would have to be on a permanent drug-high
for that. Then what? I should become religious
and put it into Jesus’s hand. Let Him do the
What I need is a job where I can help people. Help
them what? Be as dissatisfied as I am? I am hardly
a model for others. I resign.
I am looking outward, which always
causes glare. I am going to have to look inward.
There is no home inside. All the rooms are vacant, dusty,
the smell of old paint, the wind thru broken windows
blowing newspapers around, hinges creaking.
It is like listening to a baby crying without stop for something.
Just need blaring away like a siren. And there is no answer.
Nobody is home. Nobody gives a shit.
The baby will eventually stop crying.
At my age (72 and a half), there isn’t much room for the future.
Whoever thought I would get to half that number?
I should be grateful for a full and pain-filled life.
But here I am complaining. I do that well.
I can complain about anything at any hour.
I highly recommend it. It is rather cleansing.