I’m in the wrong cycle:
Mondays marred by hospice runs,
mid-week and weekends languishing in dramas
of heat wave and drunks on benders.
I am my own beast:
closer to insect than animal,
impatient, close to played out;
best friend to bastards who pay debts
with conflict diamonds and Juneau furs,
who fill their talk
with innuendo and longing,
their silences with
the rolled scraps of maps and message blanks.
I’m aging out of despair.
It can’t carry humor savage as acid, as the sun.
Borne out by warnings of drying rivers,
by drought clouds of dust,
I’ve wronged the weather.