Not a Poem

I say too much.

I've grown tired
of speaking and writing
of wearing a mask
and being vigilant
to every small
detail.

This looks like a poem
but it is not a poem.

It may feel like crying
for help or attention or love
but it is not.

This is a collection of sentences
which lead nowhere
for anyone
not even
me.

~

Last Sunday I slept
off and on
for 18 hours.

On Monday I wore
my cutest mask
went to brunch
and listened lamenting
about gun violence in schools
without the slightest hint
of understanding that they
ARE THE PROBLEM.

We are the problem.

Yes
more coffee
please.

Miss may I
have a cinnamon roll
to go?

~

A literal drought.

The carrying of heavy
buckets from the well.

An injured back
with chronic pain
and the urge to sleep
it all away.

Sure sunlight
and heat and strawberry plants
in bloom.

Sure lupin and basil and orioles
warbling about this birdkeep
of rib and breath.

~

The Lover left
so now love looks harmed
or differently
through eyes of one
with no stomach for ecstasy
or gushing platitudes of Oneness.

Completion is
not needing anything more
than you have.

The question is now
what do I have?

I own nothing.

I have nothing.