I wish everyone would move at my pace
and nobody would give me an ugly face.
I wish my questions would be answered directly
because my grief is not as transitory as the minutes and the hours.
I’m re-reading emails for offers, re-reading messages from missed lovers,
making risks with money and regretting the hand’s not taken.
We lean so far over our phablets until we are swallowed whole by growing gorilla glass.
Everyone has their own fucked perceptions of social class and what it means to have some.
House of Cards and True Detective anxiety attacks leaving me as negative as the windchill.
And I get my thrills staying up in a sugar coma until I can’t help but question myself.
And the siren song of a sudden significant memory
lures me away from the sea of the moment towards an island of sorrow.
And I wonder what our place would be like if I could shake my past, dig up these roots and tell ya it would last.
And if I had the album linings for everyone’s lives and login for everyone’s heart,
I think that I would still be ignorant to their essence.
My own nucleus keeps me guessing, keeps me on edge, gulping and sweating.
We are so alarmed and firmly carved into bluffs of concern and consternation,
yet all the issues and the protests and the uproar has a short shelf life.
How quickly we are distracted by the plight of a family member,
the changing leaves of a spouse outgrown,
the prospect of an unpaid FASFA loan, the next Netflix season drop,
the fear of a hip and heady boat missed, the sick satisfaction showing everyone up,
or the song or painting or poem left unfinished.