Today
I am emphatically dramatic, a problematic statistic you upset, a dreary cloud overhead promising rain.
But there’s a system to maintain,
routines to establish and black mascara runs down beauty’s face, streaks down cheeks, staining the places she let them remain.
I am selfishly brooding over others’ theatrics, if life is a game, then this is a hat trick;
a score to run up like notches on a belt.
If life deals the hand I fold on the felt, I fold before the flop, I fold before the inevitable river I can’t get across or atop.
I am a traveler lost, stopping by a hundred acres or more Christoper Robin wouldn’t cross, frozen like the speaker of Frost poetics, sympathetic and pathetic, stuck in place waiting on motivation or momentum to triumph over this spectrum of fear and imagination, over temptations and vacations, against vocations and occupations, waiting to triumph over opinions of outsiders and interlopers.
I am working on ignoring the comments of spectators who’s spark died long before mine was lit, long before my own tenacity and grit could get the chance to move foreword and advance, long before life’s demanding dance, the dance I am forever learning the steps to.
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Today
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