an old poem

Every so often something overtakes me and I try to write poetry, or, more accurately, something like the following happens. This is from about 12 years ago. It is about a life I left behind. I just re-read it and a few others from that period, and I think some of it is kinda okay. So, for what it's worth...

I’d tried a thousand ways 

to worry through life,

caught in the romantic 

allure of despair, bemoaning 

our Heehaw anxieties,

bad luck and gloom, the 

cartoon violence of drunks 

bouncing each other off 

the walls or searching 

for mermaids in the bay 

like Prufrock heroes.

But I gave up on the ghost 

at last, and tossed out spare 

skeletons to boot, and if I 

didn’t smile at least I felt it.

Not all those empty bottles lined 

up beside the sink belonged to me,

lest you forget; and you know 

the dirty plates aren’t mine; but if 

you insist we both spoiled the nest 

at least we worked together. I’ll 

cop to that, alright. And I’ll take 

some blame for wreckage, and 

that will surely make me smile.

I can’t be made to fret about it.

What’s fair, what’s deserved, what’s 

to be done, what’s to come - I used 

to believe in answers to these 

unlucky questions, but I was 

older then and felt the stakes 

driven further and further up. 

I’ve wised up to the risk.

Now I’m never certain and 

I’m certain that it’s best.

I’m not alone. I’m not weary.

I’m living off the dividends 

of misspent youth: pointless 

delight and days with no end,
careless concern and grave hope.