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 . . .
