It’s hard, putting life on a page,
Three point three decades of experience,
Twelve thousand plus mornings and noontimes and nights,
It’s hard to get it all on a page.
The minor aches and pains of colds or flu,
Major headaches from the IRS,
A lover’s warm, embracing whisper,
Kittens at play, cats at rest,
It’s hard just to remember it all.
Christmases and rain
Broken toes, television
Crying alone on a New York sidewalk,
Pressed by the throng, and so alone
Until the snow fell, and covered fears in pristine blue.
Riding horseback in the wilderness,
Smoking weed in dingy rooms,
Tart red wine with special friends,
Disneyland, top-down highways, beaches, sex and
Hangovers with hot biscuits, strong coffee, huevos rancheros,
And nothing to do but mix margaritas and talk, talk, talk.
It’s even harder.
Squeezing ideas, condensed
From incoherent masturbation
To well-defined, just-enigmatic-enough tightness
That makes a loved one smile.
But still it’s hard.
Failing to capture the tearing,
Stinging cut that says “it’s over,”
It’s hard to get up tomorrow, go to that same job
With the same old friends when, just today, “it’s over.”
It’s hard to put life on a page.