no apology for a mis~dial,
not an issue;
as our fingers grow older,
their memory cells age
even more rapidly,
and we press buttons
unintentionally more than intentionally…
so let’s ponder the body’s
breaking down,
the known and the unknown,
the variable rates of our parts
decay, the physics of our own
decay, like stars, like atoms.
we must be self-consumed,
our half life measurable, and
the weight of this irony, we are,
witnesses to our diminishment,
but somehow, we learn too, this,
processes teaches tolerance,
most of the time, our foibles
become our laughter, we walk
across a room, and in doing so,
forget why we did so, and
we whimsy smile, at the funerals
of our neurons, laughing inwardly
at our outward disassembly with a
“oops, there goes another one,”
till we laugh no more, or perhaps,
we do, but our chuckles are heard
about ourselves, by ourselves, for ourselves….
and perhaps battle, an urgency with which we write,
is a desperate to pickle our mind’s content, in case,
you like pickles, sweet and sour, garlic or
my fav, butter…