By Eric Lawson
Curse this aging, ever shrinking bladder!
Forced to stumble down the hall to urinate
in the middle of the night has fully awakened
me from my slumber and now I’m left with
a restless mind and a fidgeting body on edge.
Too hot for clothes, too alone to care.
No respite from intrusive thoughts.
No relief from the day’s clinging humidity.
No escape from the mad nightly kerfuffle.
Memories of the assault make me clench my
ribs where the steel toed boot did its worst.
A claustrophobic vice tightens its grip
around my raw lungs, working overtime.
I don’t fit in with this pastoral setting and
its quant small town pedestrian charm.
I want to sprint to my car
and drive
and drive
and drive.
But to where and how far and for why?
So I keep on staring at the off-white ceiling.
Living a continent apart from my daughter
with no way of knowing how she’s doing,
makes me sick
and feel utterly adrift
and reminds me of my failures as a parent.
Curse this heavily overworked liver for
proving to me that I’m still only human.
And shame on this guileless brain of mine.
It should know better than to
tease me with false hope
when I truly need sleep.
Now my goals will continue
to dangle ever skyward
elusive in the ether with
the imaginary pencil
that was supposed to
check off all of my
nightly anxiety boxes.
losing our grip on purpose 