Not Blame Your Pleasure
Because vision limits options, I close my eyes.
Becoming urges patience.
The morning after I didn’t die, I took breakfast in bed.
Arrival stamps the difference between waiting and choice.
Expectation, too, extends its squeeze, rendering sleep impossible.
I ride the bike and go nowhere, or walk steadily, covering the same ground.
Which will claim me first? An occlusion, gravity or unchecked growth?
Anticipation replaces one sigh with another: I have three falls from two roofs.
A friend has named me executor of his estate, and now the race is on.
The path to the void seems straight only near its end.
My ashes will one day soil someone’s morning.
“Not Blame Your Pleasure” first appeared here in November 2015.
“Expectation rendering sleep impossible” and “ashes will one day soil someone’s morning” have a whole new ring for me since the last time I read this one – since my son’s expectation-burdened decline yielded his ashes. Sign of a really good poem: illuminates reality ever-changing.
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Thanks, Jazz. The poem has taken on new weight for me, too, in the past five years. I wonder what it’ll bear in five more years?
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