When in my sarcasm I suggested that you ‘guess again’, I realized that you were in fact guessing, guessing about everything, guessing in order to create a process of elimination, a tool on which I now recognize you entirely depend. Guessing as a way of life is a tragedy. I’m not saying that trying to know every last thing in the world is an acceptable alternate goal, but to reach an adult age and not even be able to work your way up to a possible hunch is scary, scarier than even my sarcasm, which at this moment seems interminable, but I’m sure you guessed that.
Make a list of your favorite fingers
Anticipation of the approaching traffic consumes.
The tiny spec grows and develops into the arriving vehicle
50 miles per and the rapid succession of the coming
And those leaving eats quickly at my heart.
The pain seers me
Why are these who travel from the direction of my destination
Passing me by?
For miles and miles they appear to be greeters
The breeze created by their passing chaps my face
And questions my goals
How can so many abandon my objective?
But flee they do.
My hunger does not diminish
And I press on
Of course if we all went this way, we might tip the globe
Maybe that’s what they fear.
You are reading selections from More Sober on the Way to Sane and Lines From My Life by Sherrie Theriault