This gentle mood
Moves me along
As it’s inclined to,
Shifting unsteadily like
A water balloon
With nothing to
Steady in my current
Mood. In my past
I’d dared it all quite
Sure nothing was
Beyond . . . Me.
I did it without
Sitting here
Dreaming.
I ran as if
I had been on
Streets of gold and
Had the wind
Bringing strength
Never ending –
And it was real.
Sweep, sweep, sweep. They’re
At it again. I’ve rolled over
Several times. Each time
The sweepers stop as though
They’re checking my pulse,
But on they go again. My
Hearing isn’t as it was,
And my dreams albeit
Short push me away; so
I can’t be sure it isn’t a
Breeze or wishful thinking
Beside their point, I’m
Sure, well, some of the time.
Sweep, sweep, sweep,
It’s as though they’re at
Me with more intensity:
“Move along, make a hole,
You don’t really do anything
Anymore.” And I’m
Edging as near as I dare
Toward the end of the page.
Unlike Yeats I waited,
Not rushing ahead
Until done. He, seeking
Readers, led a revolution
While I was a carrier driver’s
Load, dropping on docks
Still rendering kind. Looking
Time to time not deigning
Any boastful assertions. How
Else in good conscience arrive
On these shores having spent
Time on others? I can’t recall
How I got from there to here
My sister and her friend denied
Walking me back till I was
In the time I climbed derricks
And had battles with the like-
Minded in lots tall with weeds,
Home, contrary to what Wolfe
Asserted. His being common
Existence, mine being mind.
Doing things with all my might
I learned when young, but never
Who I was over the years.
I seemed well enough at this
And that and maybe as good
As need be and always moved
On. Looking back as I often do
Was I good enough. I was
Offered an increase in rank
If I would stay, but the war
Was the thing I was doing
And I was on Cheju Do
When the truce was signed.
I seemed to be done and
Moved on, but had I stayed,
I might have had Oswald,
To train. If I had
Trained him with all my might,
What would he do if I was
Better? If I was worse?
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