Exercise.
Like a dog too old, with musty hips
but in sudden spirit, front paws in spring,
fangs trumpeting how tough I am.

Be me.
Insane, running down dirt tracks
where old tires run to their burial.
Should be not be me.

Be compassionate,
for those who shall knife me,
for those who shall pull me
into sickness of nothingness.

Meditate.
Watch the trains grinding rusty tracks,
and the wheels never stop, diesel smoke
creeps through all that is good in sight.

None of these measures are met
with even slight ounces of courage.
Failure is highest with the most important
measure of wanting my life back,
failing to measure what has been lost forever.

At last, close with one simple measure:
Smile, breathe, and go slowly.

Jingle’s Poetry Potluck this week is Aims, Goals and Ambitions. I thought I might try one on the theme. Go check out the efforts.