(inkpen)

Something about autumn,
my ink pen begins
to work.
Maybe it’s trying to
tell me to lay low
in summer.
To read, or take
trips, instead of just
cursing the heat.
Can’t they figure
something out –
it’s too hot to travel
in summer –
too crowded as well.
I can’t quite get
seasons any more –
except to complain,
some kind of
down-side blues
got hold of me –
I can tell you
what’s wrong with
anything you
mention,
the back yard,
the neighborhood,
the state.

Summer is hot
& we don’t have picnics,
winter too cold,
no fireplace
in the house.
My life a wheel
I’ve slipped to the
bottom of,
& it keeps going
forward & back.
I cannot get up,
do not recall
what was at
the top,
I should not have
argued with duality.
Might have known
if there was only
one side, where
I’d get stuck.

10/20/99