poem

Going Through Something

We’re all going through something.

Half dead trees with hollowed out limbs

Bracing for the gale force winds.

Flowers are sweltering in the sun

While, later on, their roots

Get washed away in the deluge.

Some of us are perpetually waking up

While others fail to fall asleep.

We’re all going through something unique.

We’re all on permanent spin cycle,

Wracked and wet and wrinkled,

Trying to pass our laundered selves off as 

Lightly starched, ironed shirts.

I counter your grievous losses

With a litany of frivolous obsessions.

Your anger and her mystification

Are just enough to balance

My deflective prevarications.

Your here and now present must level up

With my understanding of the past

Minus the mourning of an unchosen future. 

Everything I eat ends up

Dander in my own pillow.

My lonesome childhood laments

Get remitted in the rush I still get 

When the gallbladder is finally out.  

Every time I feel good about myself

I’m soon reminded by the face

Of the impostor I chose to become 

That I never stood a chance 

Of being anybody, any good.

8/14/21