Struggling to rise again from a fall. Winded. Sick of an old grief,
scolded by regrets of such long standing that they qualify for pensions (go ahead,
retire, please!) and the long low bank of dirty cloud carries particulates
from sweet mossy forests that were never meant to burn, but are burning now.
scolded by regrets of such long standing that they qualify for pensions (go ahead,
retire, please!) and the long low bank of dirty cloud carries particulates
from sweet mossy forests that were never meant to burn, but are burning now.
What I have to ask myself is, do I feel lucky? And I do not. Lucky all my life
but not today. Dust off the knees of my old-man jeans; straighten the last few inches
that used to come for free. The masks for the pestilence work very well
for fire smoke. Isn't that convenient! And the various stupid accomplishments
of the past decade slide away. Tired of it all, and ready to arrange my limbs,
settle my debts, confirm my suspicion that the chips I'm playing
are actually worth nothing at the desk.
Poor Grendel's had an accident: so may you all.
6 comments:
Poor Grendel's had an accident: the monster's last words, if I recall correctly, in John Gardner's Grendel.
Sometimes it's a drag but we persist because we know there are sad and painful days and those aren't the only kind of days. At least not yet. Hugs.
Thank you!
And the various stupid accomplishments
of the past decade slide away... this poem was full of feeling and resonated at so many levels!
Sad and wise. Sorry for any literal fall!
Thanks, Rajani and Kathleen!
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