Counting on things
It doesn’t work.
There is always the fine print,
and, as they say, “The devil is in the details.”
So it has been for me,
the devil in the details of me.
I have to go beyond myself,
because the devil is hunting me down
like the exhausted dog that I am.
Never ever depend on anything, he says.
Never. Remember this.
You will forget, though, because
you can’t even rely on your own memory.
Once your fourth grade teacher
wrote in your report card, “Karen retains
everything.” You cannot rely on the dead past.
It is so far gone, it smells of dust
and decay, the stench sandpapering your nostrils.
What did you rely on, you silly, naïve girl?
Your parents, your teacher, your husband, your lovers,
insurance companies, friends, your talents,
your own mind and heart.
Face it, you mis-judged, and now the bill is due.
And oh yes how the rage echoes
in this mis-begotten
cauldron of woe.
Nothing is free in this world.
You thought once you had paid your dues,
and in spades. Then you find your currency
was worthless and prices skyrocket even
as you raise it in your impotent hand.
You depended. You wanted. You needed.
You mis-judged so perfectly, scientifically almost,
the mis-calculations swirling down the sewer of your life
as precisely mathematical as a whirlpool
of dirty water down a drain.
And you, you are the spider caught in that
descending maelstrom
of destruction.
- Monday August 20, 2007
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