Neighborhood, 7 a.m., 3.01
Dismissing disturbing dreams teased awake by weak sunlight
Unable to take in full breaths around the heavy uncertainty of another
diagnosis ready to be pronounced (this time, COVID)
the way advanced prostate cancer was leveled against
my family of then three, in July twenty-sixteen
and now my tiny family of me plus Jason, daughter-in-law added December twenty-eighteen
So much more inviting to linger
in sleep that escaped through tossing and turning
but knowing a three mile walk will put distance
and perspective into the thoughts crushing every angle.
The pop rock vibe of the eighties, default Pandora fuel,
grates too harsh.
One hour of Wayne Dyer
and 6,464 steps
remind me to center and return to center.
“You never die from a snakebite, you die from the venom,”
Siri takes Wayne’s quote on forgiveness without incident,
for meditative evaluation, and, most likely,
Last day of class for this school year. Only
five of sixty
on the roster
did work after Friday, March thirteenth.
completed the work
with a passing grade.
A noon Zoom with eighth grade family
confirms many more disappointments
of the same caliber. We push save and
post final grades, anyway.
Pulled by planetary alignments
and retrogrades, the story of my past
demands to be rewritten for the sake
of moving forward. Three hours under a
striped patio umbrella, and the Google doc
allows doors to close so others can open.
Somewhere in the midst of evaluating
the eight grader who made me hate myself
in the sixth grade,
her venom still occasionally stinging my self-worth,
a text dings.
“Doctor said his test came back negative!”
My heart cries.