Twinges of Thought In Reckless Abandon

I become caught up in laminar flow,

That easy place to find when the world sails by;

Sweet, dangling sweetmeats of forbidden fruit—

Enticing, delectable, sometimes I almost think I can touch them.

Alas, it is not to be— not for me.

I float along in my own private oblivion,

Refusing to worry about the train wreck approaching;

Brown, sensible shoes of birthdays past—

Tight, dependable, sometimes I forget they’re tied together.

Sometimes I forget to tie them at all.

I gently go where I’m not allowed,

Trying not to touch the edges, coloring inside the lines;

Hall passes aplenty from a pad I stole—

Alone, available... quickly they line my pocket.

Now who’s the boss, asshole? Stop me if you can.

I get used to it too quickly it seems,

Forgetting to remember to think about thoughts;

Obituaries sent in letters from home—

Stark and putrid they line my footlocker.

Madness here, sadness there... sleep well, Uncle George.

I can no longer find any laminar flow,

No promise of ease, damn sure no freedom from pain;

Weekends are vortexed in pathways obscured—

Phlegmatic, arthritic, I stumble and balk.

Alas, it is to be—at least, for me.