lucky (worth the effort)

i wrestle the gods for sleep
and don’t give a damn about this world
for now, your news is not news
its shit on a stick
and i have no time for such
silliness, such diversions.

sipping water from a plastic cup
head rested in hand, i wonder
where this storm came from
and ponder the meaning of
november and my daughter’s
fifth birthday, how the
hell did this all happen
so quickly?  where have
the days gone to?
how many more do we have?

in fits of sleepless soliloquy
the poet has conversations with
himself and thinks that this is
a fine time to suddenly feel the pulse
of the words.

and i don’t know where my head is,
yes you do, it’s in your poem
and in your past, and you can
look there and to the future
but neither are as important
as being here, right now, and
loving and giving and breathing
this air, this life affirming air,
sucking it into the lungs and
feeling the heart beating and
the mind whirling and churning
because this is where life exists-
in the right fucking now of it all.

both of us grin at the affirmation
of our mortality and begin to
think about dancing in the rain.