The last sentence in Robert Bly's poem, Early Morning in Your Room is: "When Robert Burton said he was melancholy, he meant he was home."
That is how I felt today. Melancholy and at home. Here is my make-up poem from yesterday which ends my 7 days in a row of writing one poem a day.
Some days I stare at brown eyed, tan boys
and think about drinking their bodies.
Some days I hate the thought of being naked.
When I tell the truth, I say this:
I love solid wrinkles and spiked gray hair
and I miss seeing you in dark places.
I wonder if you will follow me.
The last time I wanted someone to love me
I left town. I thought I was good enough alone.
My fragile cabbage brain had no idea
what to make of love.
The empty roads were easier,
and poker face was never my specialty.
Some days I wish for second chances.
I know the difference now,
but I still love the game.
- mszigzag May 2010
ps - these pictures are from 2004 from a trip to Pacific City, Oregon: