There is no rhyme to it.

There is no rhyme to it.

As I grow older

My skin loosens

Its grip

On my bones

It barely fits

In the right places

An old raincoat

More than a little shabby

After too much wear

Frayed at the edges

Worn thin at the elbows

I am determined

To tighten up

Some people are easy peelers

I am leather-bound

Built to withstand

Changes in fortune

A steady hand

To pull the trigger

Should the need arise

It won’t

I have seen the damage that

Can do

There is no place

For it in this story

Threadbare though it is

I carry loss

It sits alongside my gratitude

Comparing notes

Vying for preeminence

Their cancel culture

Evens the pressure

Reducing my risk

Of surrender

To self-pity

Enervation

And the blind eye

Of the body snatcher.

Wednesday, the 5th of November.

Lay your eyes on me

If you will,

I am not invisible

To the naked eye.

It is true

I have never seen one dressed

Unless a patch counts

As apparel.

Damn your hypocrisy

I am numbed

By patronage

And grown

Heartless in defeat.

Inside pale slack skin

The clammy funk

There is brittle bone,

With little to commend

Poverty, but the disease of

Low expectations.

The bright burn

Of liquor

Gives no respite

The fall is steeper

Than the rise

Is smooth.

If you have nothing

To ease the burden

Of contempt

Let me be

I have enough

Self-loathing to go around