July 26, 2011

it’s almost august
and the passing notes of summer
flip calendar pages wildly with
steamy gusts of humid air

it’s 2011. i was born
almost 31 years ago.
a number that still sounds
strange and wrong to me,
as if it were someone else’s age.

i wish i had written that line about
‘a pair of ragged claws’
but i was born too late, and
Prufrock had already sung his song
and gone to his rest.

it’s after five
which means i should be heading out
into the bright evening
but i don’t want to move on to the rest of
my ever-growing to-do parade.
this week seems heavier than most.

i’m typing nonsense.
weak lines and half-rhymes
talking about time and yet
not saying anything new.
that’s because nothing is new
under the summer sun.

i feel older today than
i have felt in a long time.
i am oddly regretful and morose.
i am poor company. lucky for
the rest of the world,
i’m alone right now.

after a good meal and a drive home,
i’m sure i’ll snap out of it, and
get down to the business of the evening.
but right now, i sit, silent, sour-mouthed,
and sullen.