73. THE ERROR OF ONE'S WAYS

THE ERROR OF ONE'S WAYS
I erased every mark of her from all my books -
not a smudge not a smidgen to be. There would be
instead clear blue skies, wide-open spaces,
and an end to all that cramped and crabbed
bad living done before. I swore this to myself
(you must believe) over and over again.
It wasn't just that living like that had no end,
but more that the lack of presence, after a while,
just wore me down. Beleaguered, tired, fitful and dark;
I'd grown into some monster I never wished to be.
If there was ever a sanctimonious moment, this would be it:
admitting to oneself the error of one's ways.
-
So no one wishes, any longer, to speak with me.
So no one communicates a word. I hear the
stupid 3rd Street choir singing from the roof
of a parking garage somewhere in downtown
Morristown, and I have to wonder why. Their
insidious, bastardized music - a really bad
form of religious rap - seeps through my brain like
zombie blood at an outdoor picnic. I'm vain enough,
I guess, to admit I'd wish to see them all dead -
if I had the chance to choose it.
-
No matter the age, everyone remains stupid as they grow.