A Poem a Day Keeps the Zoloft Away

In the afternoons,

I would sit with my back to the wall

on the East side,

so it would be warm from the radiating heat the sun had

distilled onto the concrete 

but I would still be in the shade,

the orderly, Tom, who I had made a small

friendship with would buy me tins of

sausages with the small coin I would provide,

I could not smoke anymore, not a pipe or a cigar, the taste had gone, nor could I sew nor was I one to pray and talk to God, I despised conversations at this point —they led to argument or misunderstanding—, I couldn’t paint nor would I could I actually afford it, the gardeners would not let me help saying my back and knees were too far gone, so in spite of all the things I could not do,

there I could still sit, warm and cool, with sausages,

I could still remember things.

The nurses would always try to give me a book,

but they did not know the pain of

books yet, or how much

regret you can come across unknowingly.

When you are young, it is fun to put

yourself in situations you have not been in,

but it is very different when you are old

and have been through them

and the pain was very much a real thing.

I preferred to control my own memory

for the little time I had left, with the little control I still had.

#299