Accustomed to a long-term discipline,
achieving what was chosen as a goal,
is yes, success, and certainly a win,
but leaves me feeling like it punched a hole
in me, that now requires self-control
to thrive without, without discarding yield.
I want to keep the treasure that’s revealed,
but modulate the habit I have grown.
I need to level and expand my field
to cultivate the seedlings newly sown.
At 6:15 I stretched beside my bed,
and nearly reached to turn on light and heat.
But then I crawled between the sheets instead,
supine another hour. Now I greet
the sun on rising, and the view is sweet.
I’m starting late on all I planned to do,
but I’m relaxed and sure I will complete
the needful. I don’t leave till half past 2.
It’s Tele-Med today that’s crimping me.
My morning’s crowded but it could be worse.
I must reallocate my energy
but I’m at home, and I can pen this verse
while biding for the dialogue-to-be.
I tense in offices awaiting nurse
or doctor – here I’ve got my favorite stuff,
and so far (knock on wood) I’m well enough.
Who’s judging me? I never overhear
analysis with which I might agree
or argue, though I’ve many voices near.
Who’s judging me?
I’m hardly inconspicuous or wee,
and modulation’s seldom in my sphere.
Abhorring murk I trumpet honesty
too often and too loud, I’ve come to fear.
Observing others, some have got to be
regarding me, and yet it isn’t clear
who’s judging me.
“No thank you; I’d just rather stay inside,
and hammer out two emails.” I don’t guess
that’s honest but he’s used to veering wide
to ratify his sedentariness.
I’m sorry (no apology implied,
but rather an affectionate distress).
It wasn’t for his company I asked,
but I would love to see his body tasked.
I doubt my days are numbered, even now,
but sometimes I assemble sundry fears –
not catastrophic, but a lowered how,
diminished why, enfeebled what appears.
Fatigue encroaches and a pallor nears,
and though I don’t detect a plummet yet,
it may be life is numbering my years.
I act before I lessen or forget.
I cannot act unless I’m playing me,
but I’ve a friend whose ego is so fair,
she always tries to understand what we
or you are likely to be feeling. There
is yet a third who forms our company,
but doesn’t give emotion any air.
We constitute a monthly lunching set,
and I’ll take notes before we all forget.
For Twenty twenty-four, I spent each day
a little time on Spanish, or a lot.
The next year I decided to make way
to modify food intake. And I got
fair progress in both projects, though I’d say
I need continuance – arrived I’m not.
But I am thinking, looking now to bring
to Twenty twenty-six, my next big thing.
“Another parking ticket?” (her dismay
half-joking as she spotted 2 stores back
the Pay Station ignored when on her way
to lunch). She had collected quite a stack
but paid them all, I thought, before her date
with DMV (last week, at 10 past 2).
“I’ll add them to the rest,” I heard her state.
“The rest?” I asked. “I thought you cleared that slew.”
She paused to set my understanding straight.
“I only paid the tickets that were due.”
Some friends complain of brain fog now and then.
I must admit I don’t know what they mean.
My only reference to that state was when
I long ago gave up the nicotine
(the feeling: dull but brief and in between –
a hard-to-focus view impeding work).
Perhaps it’s luck or gallons of caffeine,
but so far I’m immune to foggy murk.
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