THE SUM OF DIM

Some days poems dim,
right brain gated shut,
thoughts limp proper
and prim,
the mind slows down
stands so still,
like birds on a last
fatigued leg
of long migration.

Some days and nights
dreams are vague,
if at all they are,
and waking is silent
and gray
like stepping out
of a rental car,
Ford or Toyota,
(does it really matter?)
in Denny’s
parking lot
in Alaska or Nebraska
on Tuesday
torrid with swelter,
sweat and mindless
chatter
of late August
regret, yes
even trees are sadder.

Yes, some days
are breathed
and sensed
(if at all)
in a daze
of blue smoke
and red haze
where fat greasy
men abide
and speak
of nothing
but markets
and gain,
AGAIN
AND
AGAIN,
interminably
inane.