The weather in Miami is
Clear, winds light, eighty-two degrees and
The weather outside my house is
Drop-ass dreary dull dreadful depressing
And the weather in my heart is
Pumping up a high pressure storm
— which is really kind of strange
Since high pressure is for good weather:
All clear, barometer rising, clear sailing . . .

But this pressure is the inverse:
A kind of panic that grips me overwhelms me
Shelves my self-control, fists my heart — all this
When I have to leave familiar good old home.

Whether it’s an overnight or New Zealand
I feel as if I am preparing for my own funeral
Or PhD dissertation or another cystoscopy
One of those “Don’t you hate it when that happens?” —
So the mind that can do all the things I do
Gets hung up on the enigma of
How many pairs of socks?
Do I need warmer sweaters?
Damn, can I fit all this in one suitcase?
Don’t pack water bottles in the suitcase, you mutt!
Don’t think of all the times you screamed inside while loading
Too much: overload — every tearful farewell,
Every heartwrenching separation —
Goodbye, Daddy (on the train platform, at the door, at the cemetery)
Goodbye little guy, my love, my heart, my home, my Mom;
Goodbye childhood, cottage, canoe, sun, health, youth . . .
Drag out a suitcase — brain, synapses, memories, emotions; you name it.

I just want to call it off and go back to yesterday yesterweek yestermonth yesteryear.

Just writing this is a wrench . . .

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About riverwriter

Poet, playwright, duplicate bridge player, website designer, cottager, husband, father, grandfather, former athlete, carpenter, computer helper for my friends, theatre designer, backstage polymath, retired teacher of highschool English, drama, art, a baritone singer in a barbershop quartet, who knows what else? wordcurrents is on Facebook: Doug also has a Facebook page, "Incognitio", related to his novels.
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