I like to think the algorithm’s pained,
for I deleted, unsubscribed, and left.
I know that’s fanciful – my son explained
the tech – but still, the program acts bereft
at my abandonment – a course disdained
after my selfish use, a loss like theft.
I chuckle at the begging more than twice,
till noting it still lurks on one device.
I have a day at home in perfect poise,
with lovely rain outside and warmth within.
I stretch, and am not bothered by the noise
of others, or complaint beneath my skin.
I know the family has food and toys
sufficient, and I feel the love of kin.
But I am left alone to bask the way
I wish. Euphorically I feel today.
If life’s a game, and winners play each round,
a scheme as heartless as, by any name,
divinity, barbarities abound.
If life’s a game.
Your tears fuel poetry but have no claim
to better life or more extensive ground.
Survival’s often traveling with shame.
So rape and ravaging should not astound,
in contest for more dominance and fame.
The generous and wise are seldom crowned,
if life’s a game.
Regardless of the date I post this poem,
I typed it on December 31st.
Expecting rain, I edited at home,
the place where I’m most likely to be versed.
Without an outside aim, I’ll be immersed
in words and in a bath with bomb and balm.
I’m prerecording here a day self-nursed,
transmogrifying remnant wrath to calm.
I’ve lost some friends, I said when I replied.
(The question was who do I hang with now).
Some moved away, retired, and reside
in states I seldom visit. Others bow
to an infirmity and don’t abide
activity. The saddest have lost how
to think or even try to recollect,
a form of amputated intellect.
I heard the wind blow hard all through the night,
and up before the sun I hear it still.
I checked the weather app, and clocked the sight
of “feels like 24″ from gale-caused chill.
I hesitate to venture out, but right
across the deck await the tools that will
enable morning post on balanced seat.
I’ll dash on tree debris to start the heat.
At 4 a.m. I stirred and sensed the sting
of musk from neighbor skunks invade my sleep.
I saw the pair at 7 and, next thing
I knew, the reek again began to seep
into my cottage. I don’t try to keep
the creatures off – they’re peaceful and sincere,
preferred to others, but it’s thick and deep
today I’ll need to light aroma here.
A week ago, an easy week commenced.
Except for Tuesday, nothing filled my plate.
I felt no claims I’d rather have dispensed
with: nothing asked of me that couldn’t wait.
I might have learned how to procrastinate,
but I don’t have the patience to delay.
My jones for self-esteem won’t let me wait.
I lasted but two days in slack array.
If I assumed this posture every night,
my knees might lock; my power bill might soar.
But after being out since noon, the sight
of hearth and feel of warmth are goodness more
than candy, presents, even candlelight.
I gaze at hand-knit socks, and in my core
I murmur thanks and couch them in this poem,
positioned after commerce soft at home.
Attention to some inattention now
becomes a treatment I prescribe today.
The recent past implies I’m losing how
to survey home before I go away.
Appliance on, a bolt unthrown, convey
the message reinforced to some degrees
that though at large I’m managing okay,
I have to look too long to find my keys.
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