In the dead of february
It comes to words on paper
deep in the night again
TV murmuring gentle pleas
to better myself as if
what I am doesn’t matter
retraining is necessity.
they don’t know I’m weary
with negotiating the maze
(entitled some might say)
I say "deserve" with a wink
prepared to cut back
because I always have.
Nothing feels quite right
though hindsight serves
(or is that experience?)
a friend disavows birthdays
I count each one a triumph
since the odds belittle time
everyone here will likely live
too long (Margaret) or perish
too soon (Thomas) if you think
suicide is a choice God laughs
"best if used by" is not
always an expiration date
The last time death troubled
I was thirty with two babies
fretting they’d never know me
be scarred by the sudden loss
I held them close and wept
swallowing the scent of life.
as a grain of sand on a window sill
is not a beach, no one will recall
this night, this poem, this well
full of cool water, and I am drunk
with the thoughts I gather here.
