A little sadness circulates in me
this week, like oatmeal in my blood instead
of soup. I doggy-shake my head to free
my neck for fantasy, but still I’m dead
to flights of fancy: feet of clay in mud
that glops in every orifice and groove.
My best ideas are commonplace as cud,
and all I feel is older when I move.

The dermatologist improved today.
She looked, injected, recommended, burned
off bumps with jets of cryopathic spray,
sold a system nobody’s returned,
and sent me well away. Now late tonight
the book I read is sad, but I’m all right.