It's inborn,
something like a gnat
buzzing and nipping,
buzzing, nipping at your
ears, nose, teeth, gums.
And you without your arms.
Buzzing, buzzing, buzzing.
You've felt it since
you were able to ask for things,
but never could put it into words.
It gnaws at most inopportune times:
Lazing Sunday hammock swings,
trinket trips to Kabul and Maldives,
beach dreams in St. Martin and Belize.
It's a tirade at joy's grand entrance,
glacial walls of stunning failure
at peak times of success.
It's the milkman replacing
fulls with empties, the
paperboy delivering news containing only comics.
And you can only stutter,
I've got to ask . . . ask . . .
Instead, you
turn on the TV,
pour a drink,
phone a friend for some trivia reverie.
A poem that was originally submitted as part of my graduate thesis. Here it is again in all its glory. (OK, so it's one of my favorites. Enjoy!)
