Squeaking Wheel

In the suburb, the mighty suburb, the hampster runs tonight.

Motrin or Tylenol? I'll take both. My dentist recommends the combination. Gels work faster, too. But this isn't about teeth. I was hungover yesterday. I couldn't get out of bed, 'slept' until noon. Very not like me, but I had to hibernate, recoup. And I don't drink. A walk in the sun and cool air, but I wasn't really there. Where do I belong? It was so hard to speak with people and bring my attention to them. I just nodded my head and hoped for the best. It's not about them, either.

Maybe I've simply forgotten what it is, that young touch: to look at one thing and see another instead, that every question is a yes or a no, to be convinced or adrift. Disagreements? Work it out. My friend says, "Man, you're old." Getting old. You forget things. Can't hold so tight, if only to be held right. Slip into the middle, slide side to side. Getting tired but not gone yet.

I went back to the church tonight, sat again on the hood of my car and looked at the lights on the river and trains along the edge. The moon was directly overhead. Orion stood before me, Betelgeuse and Rigel pinpoint bright. Who could have a problem on a night like this? Some people energize me, they radiate and I resonate. Lonesome and distant, but not alone and not very far. I can feel their presence now: soft chime of a heart, across the waters. Break down, break through. Be good to yourself, lovely one.

Middle of the night,
letting the hamster work at the squeaking wheel