Not-about-me poem, on the occasion of my 69th Birthday.

Dear S.

Thanks for your email.

As to your concern for my well-being, I’ve nothing to complain about. My eyesight is wretched, but nothing’s worth seeing. The doctor has me drinking (water) and dropping (liquid tears). Ha-ha! At least I still have a sense of humor.

I don’t think I’ll make the trip back East this year. What with the walker and all, I fear I’d take a fall and break my hip, and you know, that would be the end.

Last summer, I tried to withdraw from Prozac, a foolish gesture. I do have those thoughts from time to time. I won’t pretend I don’t find most people endlessly shallow. Is that a felony? I’ve not replaced Jezzy, who died in my arms, a needle in her paw, without elegy. I don’t mind being alone. I prefer my own company.

Still, after all my ambition, I’ll never own a home or publish my novel. Remember in high school, how I’d run wild, chasing girls, climbing trees to query clouds, that sort of thing. Once in Miami, on a dare, I jogged around a city block wearing nothing but Nikes. I may have fallen hard for someone back then, but what do you know in your twenties? Still, I didn’t expect life to fall so short or to be so unlucky in love.

My days are delayed orgasms that will never climax..

I don’t plan rash action. There will be dinner, if I wash dishes and peel potatoes. Please don’t take this the wrong way, but I probably won’t write again. Bills pile up, they won’t let me drive now, and I’m busy giving things away.

All best, R.

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1 Response to Not-about-me poem, on the occasion of my 69th Birthday.

  1. Pingback: Poetry Blog Digest 2019: Week 9 – Via Negativa

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