Today I Have No Timetable

 

Today I Have No Timetable

 

Today, I have no timetable.

 

Late to bed, having booked Uber

to send her; watched that black track line

until she arrives on time

then eight rounds with three pillows

until on the deck, out for the count.

 

That plane’s skimming Indian Oceans

as the duvet undulates in motion

ripples, swells, disgorges -

 

and I here plead guilty to the skipping gym,

accepted her sentence, no mitigation

that's why you’ll always find me in the kitchen

at parties, squeezing lemons,

stirring up your actual apple cider vinegar

and swallow, swallow – filling hollows

but who knows what the result might be?

 

And the Bragg’s bottle reads With The Mother,

why not Mistress, why not Lover?

 

For it’s surely little things I find you miss –

I’d tell you now,  but you cannot see

through sets of lenses smeared in gritty mist

because she did not apply her daily wipe

or apply the cleansing lotion

to my thinking elbow’s thickening skin.

 

So, let’s go through the motions,

shall we? it’s quiet, too quiet…

and cold those Doha winds

that breeze through these britches blue,

but, blow me if I was wearing any.

 

I’m no Timothy Winters, just going commando

without rifle, ammunition, bullets, bombs

or even a sense of the bars of which song

I should summon up or even hum along to

as my feet drift the scattered trash.

 

Infirm of purpose -

These feet don’t know which way they go

but ended here anyway, somehow.