Letting In a Breath of Air - March 14 2026

 

Letting In a Breath of Air

March 14 2026

I like to think I’m open-minded.

But not so open that it leaks out

like a balloon bleeding air.

And not as changeable

as a rich divorcée’s

closet full of clothes,

trying on and tossing aside

outfit after outfit

because she can’t decide

or it makes her look fat.

There has to be a roof

to keep me from floating off

in gassy clouds of random thought

thinning as they go.

A floor,

so I don’t drip-by-drip

drain out;

like a tepid bath

past an ill-fitting plug,

leaving an empty tub

ringed with soapy scum.

So open, but contained;

willing to give an ear

but able to settle

  . . . at least eventually. 

But despite my best intention

the older I get

the more my mind narrows,

as if my carotids

sclerosed as they are

were starving it of blood.

My mind

shrinking and stiffening

like the cheap leather jacket

I bought as a freshman

and never wear,

dulling and brittling

like the plastic soldiers

stashed in their toy-box

since I was a boy.

So instead of wide open windows

and a refreshing breeze,

I find myself stuck

in the dark and stuffy cell

of my impervious skull.

A crusty old-timer

has replaced the supple youth,

who was eager and receptive

with no settled worldview.

Sclerotic

  . . . but not yet dead.

Perhaps, there’s still time

to crack open a window

before it’s fully seized;

creaking stiffly

on rusty hinges

and letting in a breath of air.