Bad Night

Bad Night

A sick-to-your-stomach night
after the world accuses you
of wrong. 

They’re wrong,
but still all night—maybe because
you actually told them they weren’t right—
whatever you have ever done
that could be thrown back at you
is thrown back at you. 

You are not the kind of person who is energized
by attack; you are a woman of a certain generation,
certain age—when others rage
you blame yourself, this is how
you were raised.

So that, by the time the moon shines through
the western window, pulling at a body heavy
with the wish for rest, 
you get up,
knowing that same body, that womanliness of a certain age
and generation, can make
extremely good tea, which may somehow
releaf you. 

You smile at that little pun—
it’s already working—


Draft poem not for St. Patrick’s Day! Maybe I can come up with one of those when feeling better. Have a good day! (As always all rights reserved.)

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