I haven’t had fruit in the frig
or lunchbox for days.
Tables at home are covered
with bills, papers and paints
from projects completed,
quite past
yet too present
in gloom's disarray.
Photos on walls tip off center,
appear insolent,
almost drunk
with neglect
or the unseen passing
of time’s several seasons.
If I smoked cigarettes or drank whiskey with lust,
these would be the days of addictive bust,
but I don’t imbibe to any extent,
life without fresh ripened fruit
or pink fat steak
and this generalized mess
is how my loss shows its disguise.
Breathing slow,
deep, opens
the stiff body
to maintain mere balance
of thought.
With hope,
full feeling might
one fine day
(or sweet night)
be back brought
into this life of mine
right now so still
seeming dried out,
a long brown drought
of becoming---
and being distraught.
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