Poetry

Countdown, 4 (363.)

It was a gift card kind of Christmas,
and I’ve got a lot of Barnes & Noble dollars
and some Dutch Bros. dollars for coffee,
and some classic U.S. dollars for anything else I might need.
I ate pumpkin pie, chocolate cheesecake, and coffee
for breakfast, and yes, I’m diabetic,
but I promise this isn’t a death wish.

I should take better care of myself, though.

Anyway, I speak in Reddit more often than I’d like to admit.
We translate memes to each other
and try to teach the language to folks outside it.
It puts a damper on conversations.
The holidays are usually sort of strange,
but they’re even stranger this year,
I thought to myself
as I wrapped my heaviest coat around my
sweater arms and
plopped a beanie on my head, pre-
emptive strike against the cold.

The book money is much appreciated,
but I’ve really got to buckle down
and finish the books that sit on my shelf.
In past years, I’d blast through three in a week, week and a half,
then sit for months wondering why I hadn’t read anything
in such a long time.
The new knitting needles sit next to the bookshelf,
as though they know
I’ll have to war inside myself
and make a decision
to pick just one pastime each evening.

My problems persist, because, verily, I persist.

The thing about existence is that once one exists
for a long enough time,
it becomes harder to alter the terms of that existence.
In other words, old habits die hard.
I’m not an old habit, I promise – but the sleeping in,
the indecisiveness, the reckless energy for new experiences
that fizzles out just when I have to work hard,
the putting off work for fun instead, passivity,
these, these are all bad habits
that I would like to kill, slowly and surely,
pillows pushed over their startled-from-sleeping faces
as the last breath leaks out,
and I breathe that in deep,
because I may finally,
once and for all,
definitively
start on something new and substantial.

These lofty dreams I deliver to myself
in the hopes that I’ll finally work out the rough edges
of my reality.

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