It’s thunder on a clear day,
and that would scare me,
except that I know that with a mindset like mine,
it could be anything.

Eighteen-wheelers trying to drag race each other.
The past finally learning how to move on two heavy feet.

Whatever, sweetheart.
Whatever it has to be.

I can think with the TV playing reruns only I can see.

I can trust the fact that I don’t know when the world
is going to decide that spinning the other way is as good as anything.

This doesn’t mean I can do anything,
but it at least means that I’m a much healthier,
happier person than I was in the second grade.

Well, not those things, I guess,
but I’m taller. And I’ve learned that a weekend
of being willing to take an hour
on the futon on the roof of a fading farmhouse
is as good as just remembering the last time
I was truly grateful to go to bed.

They call this self-improvement.

I don’t know about all that,
but I have noticed that I can attend
someone else’s high school reunion,
and actually manage a relatively quiet evening.

They call this self-preservation.

Since I’m still alive,
still slipping on spills in grocery stores
that won’t sell me wine,
I guess I believe that I’ve finally picked up
taking care of myself as a hobby.

Does every staggered crush
have to end with tender bruises on my throat?

I’ve seen sideshow acts manhandle winter tourists
while the snow reaches record heights in Cleveland.

I guess I can bear witness to anything,
and I shouldn’t worry about whether or not
all these strangers have seen and heard
the same things I have.

Delirium keeps me guessing.
Random bouts of arrogance keep me
sneaking out of ICU to ask the nurses for cigarettes.

I’m a basket case who almost always knows what time it is.

They call this standing somewhere far away
from the punches that try to roll me.

Or it’s just the medium,
and I still don’t have a word for the medium.

Happy doesn’t quite describe it.

05/29/2012

Posted on 05/30/2012
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