Most read ▸
Dave Bonta
I’ve been so swamped, I took
a mental health day, called in sick.
My poems are dwindling like unused
extra fingers. But the signs
weren’t good: first the car
that wouldn’t start, then no heat
in the apartment. And in between
the therapist saying you have to learn
to let go. Hell, I barely made it
to the appointment. How can I relax
when my mechanic charges twice
as much as my therapist? I ask
the radiator repairman, can’t you fix it
so it doesn’t knock?
I need things to be simpler than they are.
Today my car still isn’t running
Day like a nettle.
Day for stress, that private, ordinary infirmity.
Day in which the sight of her ear will do me,
and all afternoon I eat lobster.
What you work for,
What you all need,
Unable to fully function,
Unable to live without me,
To go out and eat,
Drink at a bar,
To rent a house,
Own a car,
To raise your kids,
Provide them education,
To give them shelter,
Provide them opportunity,
Causing you great stress,
Providing you tremendous joy,
Able to destroy your life,
Able to make you see another day,
if you ask me what I'm thinking
I'll just say it's this stressful feeling
that's comes up creeping
it sticks with me
It doesn't go away
no matter how many times I say
that I'm fine.
lying to myself may pass the time
but it sure as hell isn't good for my mind