After everything I’ve learned, still too much

bumbling into brambles. Still waiting

to implement the quadratic equation

or maybe I already have.

The kids are grown now, one

of them anyways, the kitten spot

still on the carpet. People look at me and wonder,

earwax or dandruff? I still spill fluids.

After each spillage, a long period of

sopping and self-pity. Timeworn and mossgrown,

I still brush what’s left of my hair,

still lubricate my moving parts, still

sense a sparkle deep inside the motorworks.

Still wait for unseasonable roses to spill

from some virgin’s tilma. Now I know

metal straws should not be used

while operating machinery, the true

position of our elected officials is

recumbent, wrong notes hanging in the air.

Before I’m fitted for a six-foot bungalow,

one more heartfelt wince for everyone

who has abandoned my self-pity.

With friends like that, who needs

the comfort of a last kiss?