Stupidity stalks me when I am tired, hijacking my mouth. I can put this off to pilot error or interruption of service on my neurologic pipeline, but truly I have been captured by senseless, irrational muttonness. I would love to say it was pigheadedness but, alas, I am not self-determined, I am a sheep. I open my lips and out pours the same plaintive cry as the surrounding herd. In addition, once begun, the wail is unending; it’s as if the bellows works on its own carrying a tune which blends with the entire wool-coated world. I shift and run with my position according to the movements at large. I am following the reactionary breed, dropping the specifics of my personality as one of the crowd; my brain is switched off and a quick veneer grows over my eyes. I can’t see, think, or speak for myself and yet it doesn’t occur to me to hit the hay. When as a petulant three year old I do fall to sleep in my tracks, I wake as myself with many bleating apologies to be made.
Put morbidity on a leash and never walk it alone.
Peter and I
This flight is not filled
with the giggling cherubs of my westerly flight,
but among the solemn children on this flight
is Peter, the oldest of four,
who is reading Tolkien
and marking his place with a two page wish list.
Christmas is coming and Peter seems confident.
I wonder if we are what we read
and ponder if I am what I write.
Poetry, stories, novels, declarations,
it all feels like arms and legs,
things I cannot move right without.
I live better when they are out and free.
I am free too, when they live on their own
and I am not their soul residence.
I have to rededicate myself
to the work entrusted to me
for so much living depend upon it.