I’ve stayed quietly
undiagnosed
for decades now.

Does it even matter anymore?

If I give you my attention,
you might notice the deficit,
you might not.

I wanted to spin out,
to crash out,
to bottom out,
to drop out.

Never could though;
it would have been too terrifying.

To not be able to get away,
to run away,
If things, people, or situations
got away from me.

What if my friends
didn't stay very friendly?

I’ve never pretended
to be very smart.
(Clever? Maybe.)

Baloney sandwiches.
Never steaks.

My married life
saved my physical
life, a fact I can’t deny
even if I wanted to.

Now,
the most terrible, wonderful
rock n’ roll thing I do
is try to stay up until
2 am
on a Saturday night.

I’m too old for that **** these days.
(I do it anyway.)

Trying to hold onto something
young that still resides inside,
I suppose.

I’ll keep holding on.
It’s not a bad thing;
not wrong to do.

Touchstones are important.
People.
Places.
Things.
Songs.

Our barbaric yawps are meant
to be heard over the rooftops.

To indulge in experience,
to give our attention to
as many fleeting things
as our hearts can hold onto,
as our fingers can grasp.

Whitman says that this is why we are here.
I agree.
The meaning of life is present in the oils
That we leave behind,
in our
fingerprints.

*
-JBClaywell
©P&ZPublications 2020