Malaise

Evaluating time…

So many reflections,

from mirror,

window,

polished tabletop,

eye glasses.

So many grievances

from ear

to mouth,

to tastes and touches

drifting upwards

amidst the tea kettle steam.

Perhaps…

The aging goldfish will understand,

or maybe Queen Gertrude and Ophelia

snoring in my memory’s archive of stages,

disturbing father’s ghost atop the commode

reading “All I Really Need To Know

 I Learned in Kindergarten.”

Pacing…

You clench and unclench fists,

as if planning a grand escape,

or more likely your imagined demise.

Abruptly stopping…

You massage a torrent of great ideas

that unfortunately are not yours,

but your son’s or daughter’s,

as you retreat into a renewed childhood,

accepting delusion as savior.

Outside…

As you press your feverish forehead

against cold window glass,

you notice rain turning to snow

and watch flakes of ice

alight one at a time

atop the decaying bird bath

beside your mound of aging compost

waiting to nurture new life come another day.

Yes…

If only for another day?