1958–2016
I Could Name Some Names
of those who have drifted through thus far of their allotted
fifty or seventy or ninety years on Earth
with no disasters happening,
whatever had to be given up was given up —
the food at the rehab facility was better than you would expect
and the children turned out more or less okay;
sure there were some shaky years
but no one’s living in the basement anymore
with a divot in his head where the shrapnel landed/or
don’t look at her stump. It is easy
to feel possessed of a soul that’s better schooled
than the fluffy cloud inside of people who have never known suchlike
events by which our darlings
are unfavorably remade. And the self
is the darling’s darling
(I=darling2). Every day
I meditate against my envy
directed against those who drift inside the bubble of no-trouble
— what is the percentage? 20% of us? 8%? zero?
Maybe the ex-president with his nubile daughters,
vigorous old parents and clean colonoscopy. Grrrr.
Remember to breathe. Breathe in suffering,
and breathe out blessings say the ancient dharma texts.
Still I beg to file this one complaint:
that some are mountain-biking through the scrublands,
while she is here at Ralph’s Thriftway,
running her thumb over a peach’s bruise,
her leg a steel rod
in a mini-skirt, to make sure I see.