Reset Forty-Nine, Day One Hundred Seventy

[rejectomorph]

The never again night passes silently without me. My mind is elsewhere, listening to memory music, escaping the thought of the day I had not wanted, poking through the rubble of lost years in hope of finding what would likely never have been anyway. But that's the way it is sometimes, and most time is sometime. At least most of the past is sometime. The future is nowhere. Now here no where. So it will have gone.




Sunday Verse

The Toes

by Raymond Carver


This foot’s giving me nothing
but trouble. The ball,
the arch, the ankle—I’m saying
it hurts to walk. But
mainly it’s these toes
I worry about. Those
“terminal digits” as they’re
otherwise called. How true!
For them no more delight
in going headfirst
into a hot bath, or
a cashmere sock. Cashmere socks,
no socks, slippers, shoes, Ace
bandage—it’s all one and the same
to these dumb toes.
They even look zonked out
and depressed, as if
somebody’d pumped them full
of Thorazine. They hunch there
stunned and mute—drab, lifeless
things. What in the hell is going on?
What kind of toes are these
that nothing matters any longer?
Are these really my toes?
Have they forgotten
the old days, what it was like
being alive then? Always first
on line, first onto the dance floor
when the music started.



First to kick up their heels.
Look at them. No, don’t.
You don’t want to see them,
those slugs. It’s only with pain
and difficulty they can recall
the other times, the good times.
Maybe what they really want
is to sever all connection
with the old life, start over,
go underground, live alone
in a retirement manor
somewhere in the Yakima valley.
But there was a time
they used to strain
with anticipation
simply
curl with pleasure
at the least provocation,
the smallest thing.
The feel of a silk dress
against the fingers, say.
A becoming voice, a touch
behind the neck, even
a passing glance. Any of it!
The sound of hooks being
unfastened, hooks coming,
undone, garments letting go
onto a cool, hardwood floor.

Comments

[zippybeta]

"The never again night passes silently without me. My mind is elsewhere, listening to memory music, escaping the thought of the day I had not wanted, poking through the rubble of lost years in hope of finding what would likely never have been anyway. But that's the way it is sometimes, and most time is sometime. At least most of the past is sometime. The future is nowhere. Now here no where. So it will have gone. "


That would make a great song!