So why am I typing this poem,
this collection of words
that possess something
resembling a rhythm, a cadence.

An invitation to a wedding
sits on my table, opened,
waits for a card purchase,
a check written, a send off
of a friend I’ll, likely,
never see again.

Next to it, a Netflix package
ready to be popped into the mailbox,
to return a movie rated one star.

A calculator remains unused, collects dust
as I do the math in my head. Simple
calculations of interest, earnings, percents,
additions, subtractions as the economy
spins downward in semi-control.

A roll of the dice, probability,
combat results, no bets,
and morale checks, American
Civil War games stored on the shelf,
unplayed…

…the long nights, sleep alone,
in a bed for two, the smell of her
on her pillow, a long strand
of grey-blond hair—away,
a mission of mercy, a sick relative,
a must be done thing, stand
out of her way, of her being her,

of me blanking a slate,
all yesterdays’ words gone,
sent to publishers,
who rubber stamp rejection,
form letters, dear john….