the man is tired, sick
and tired of the world not
turning the way he wants it to,
his faith in the spirits ebbing,
exhausted by too many decisions
(he thinks of eliot on the shelf)
and choices, and no time to
wind back. time has gone and
remains gone, and those days
will never come back.
his hands are skeletal, his knuckles
white on the armrests, and he is tired
of the animals pestering him for his
attention when he has none to give,
but glad of the warmth they share
in the fading summer, claustrophobia
mixed with fear, and the desire to be
he stretches his aches away, and pushes
the furry bundles out of the chair, limps
across the threshold and out through
the gate as fast as his pain allows
to find the parched meadows and the
empty spaces between the trees,
a desire to lie down irresistible. he
closes his eyes until a wet nose wakes
him, and drives him back to the house.
his restless legs are too exhausted
to resist the affections of the animals again,
and he falls asleep on the chair surrounded
by his lack of hope and their premonitions.
This is the second poem in the series that started in my head yesterday morning, scribbled into my journal, photographed, and then edited on my phone whilst sitting outside my acupuncturist practice.
AGGIE’S ART OF HAPPINESS – CHAPTER 195