She Got Too High

She got too high last night. She reached the stage
of almost seeing double. To assuage
the symptoms, she tried counting up to ten
while blinking and refocusing again,
acknowledging she wasn’t feeling sage.

She didn’t have to drive. The only wage
she paid – embarrassment and inward rage –
was quite sufficient punishment for when
she got too high.

She failed adjusting dosage for her age.
A little pot and wine unlocked her cage
that never would have rocked her young, but then
it also wouldn’t stir this morning’s pen.
An aging character misplaced her gauge –
she got too high.

(Rondeau)

This entry was posted in Aging, Poetry and tagged , . Bookmark the permalink.

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