Let’s just see if I can dream, spontaneous, asleep
while seeming fattish, gaining weight while planning
exodus from messes left another day and time
when I was crazy, youngish, blind and stupid
Just like Mommy said I might be
They still engage.
To whatever extent it matters (and it matters to me, a bit sadly, a lot), they’ll say things and strike up bemused conversations, amusingly shifting to repartee… or small gauntlets they feel emboldened to throw down!
“Nice touch, with the ice cream cone,” one yells. “It makes you look innocent!”
This beautiful stranger! As I walk down the street on a hot summer day with Moosetracks dripping down my shirt…
As I’m licking my finger after flicking it up, she yells, “Nice touch, with the ice cream cone!”
And she smiles.
A bit sadly, perhaps.
In a diner, where I “dine” alone, a rap on the glass between me and the street. She is laughing like a college sweetheart, saying something I can’t quite make out…
‘Til her friend pulls her along and I’m left laughing through the glass myself. But alone, with some french fries, like uneaten meat.
Now I realize (a lot, sadly), I might end up home-bound… Or hiking my shirt up above my neck, spinning blindly and spitting, rejecting awareness…
Uncogent, and swearing and lashing far out…
Or in thirty years, who knows? I may have slithered from this mortal coil… pooled around my ankles, swelled edemic or lopped off from underuse, or Type 2 diabetes…
Beautiful strangers engaging me now, do so piteously!
As my french fries cool and Moosetracks drips, and I become less and less engaged…
Less bemused and amusing, a bit sadder (sadly).
And vaguely, enraged.
In NEW YORK, before loud hordes pollute each day, and in MUNICH, before tourists take dumps on the canvas — and in any place I find myself with a café or diner open early enough — I avail myself of public solitude.
Some words on ‘mornings’… by Jeff Glovsky
* * *
Not to be confused with
a short Story by Jglo
In the Midtown bar, the blonde ignores surroundings, blithely chatting on a cellphone, like she’s home alone, or might as well be.
Unlike she, I’ve got no one to talk to. Sitting with the gloaming outside, loud annoying noise within. My head, the music bleeding, pounds right through me, thoughts (not there) receding…
Empty. I look up, and down. The room spins.
No one hears me fall.
Without getting too deep into things, 2016 saw personal struggles with marriage, with money, with illness, pain, homelessness… precipitous advances in cancer, dementia, severe crippling arthritis… benign yet troubling bouts of forgetfulness, Parkinson’s disease and, two times, death.
At the end of the day, we have only ourselves to believe, allay fears… or regretfully blame. The choice is (y)ours with each passing new year.
Have a Happy in 2017.
Let’s choose wisely.
Notes on a Half Life - A 50th Birthday Year in Review by Jeff Glovsky