Poem: A Little Hazy

I often sit. I often wonder. I think about people who have died.

Those I will never meet: Jimmy Hendrix, Frank Capra, Aristotle, Genghis Khan, and Spartacus.

The list goes on: Queen Elizabeth I, Claude Monet, Edgar Allan Poe, Shakespeare, and Sylvia Plath.

The ones with mythical tones: Big Foot, Unicorns, Loch Ness Monster, Centaurs, and Dragons.

This doesn’t cover those I should remember better, the ones I met while alive like Toni Morrison.

The ones where I never said a word to like Henry Rollins.

Did the cat who chased the mouse deep into the alleyway hijack my tongue?

I tend to reminisce. What I should have done different. What I could have done different.

I was wrong. They were right. It won’t change anything.

I ask myself if I had that kind of power, would it be worth it.

The moments of uncertainty would become certain and putting gratification into lengthy holes would end.

It would be wrong to change this. I want to remember where I am stuck at the halfway point.

I ask myself. How far will I go to get those things within reach? I am not sure.

I am in a mild fog. I get up in the morning and close my eyes right away.

I am at that point again. Sitting askew. Wondering out loud. Thinking about a variety of subjects.

None of which has yet died within me and that is what keeps me going.

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