The shallow breaths betray my guarded uneasiness
The heaviness in my chest
The lightness in my head
I fight this meaninglessness with
hand to temple, eyes firmly closed
A pool of bile churning in my stomach
Until every mountain has been ground down
Until every river has run dry
I need to count my blessings.
Instead, I count black crows
I smell damp dirt
and I wonder why I don’t get it
What part of life must I come to understand
beyond a child’s laugh or my boys squealing ‘Dada’
‘Dada’ — nada
really, nothing
and, yet,
Chris George
From the collection entitled “At 42”
June 2004
