2003/arms

My arms already hurt,
9:13 a.m.
And neck, as well.
What to do,
a day so long and
filled with nothing.
I’ve had my walk,
and typed three poems,
which seems to be my quota.
Actually past it.
Once again I have to start
all over,
at whatever the magic formula
was that was making me better.
A pinch of this, a dash of that,
this thought and not that other.
Forget dairy and wheat.
It got too hot to cook,
we took a trip.
It starts like that,
things begin to crumble.
Unwind. Collapse. Regress.
I never cease to be amazed
at the rate of flow
in the downward direction,
how quickly things roll
toward decay.

7/21/03