It’s hot.
The freeway sounds
a constant brush.

Amid that not so distant rush,
I sit and think,
and feel and write
this peaceful night
of all the sundry, lucky things
I’ve got.

A reservoir
of strength
that I can spiral out
and hike or stride or stroll,
to suit my mood–

and, perchance,
progress in pinwheel
exploration rings.

I’ve got, all told,
perhaps too much.
Things new, things old,
intangible as well as palpable. . .

Though I may try,
I cannot help but
but against
so many things,
including those
obscured among the glut.

My eyes are opening
to see
where stand some things quite practical and tough,

along with others, radical
and joy-provoking.

It is a wonder, with all this,
I have, so far,
averted deadly choking.

My life has grown
so thick and long,
it might require
a fork with prongs
to cut it with a knife.

Sometimes, this makes me
pine or writhe,
but, skipping my sweet springtime skip,
I let go my needs
to shun feared shame,
stay hid and sly,
and slither in
my worn-out alibis. . .

more, or less,
I have to say,
as stars lay lace
upon this last hot day,
that, here and now,

my life is quite all right.

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