A Warm Dry Climate
April 24 2008


It’s the dailiness of things
that grinds you under
— eat ...sleep ...cook ...clean;
rinse, and repeat.

And it’s the dailiness
that gives you succour,
escaping into routine
— your body on autopilot,
while your mind idles away in a darkened garage
with the door sealed shut,
happily euthanized.

I like things orderly, predictable;
my fridge organized by best-before dates,
and thoughts of some asteroid
on a bee-line for earth
gratefully submerged in a sink full of dishes.
Change makes my palms sweat.
And calamity, every sphincter clench.
And catastrophe is worth the rent
of my dream palace of illusion,
stuffing it in
mercifully oblivious.

The days grow longer now
and sleep does not come easy.
Spring showers turn quickly to snow
then back again,
making me feel unsettled
in-between.
I think I’d prefer a warm dry climate,
somewhere near the equator
where the sun rises and sets at the same time every day
— dishes drying by the sink;
low-hanging fruit, all season;
and no umbrellas, or garages, needed.