Fix Me Now, Please

There comes a time
when it melts like overripe squash.

I hope I have forgotten my medicine.
If so, I hope it works immediately.
If not, I surely won’t make it.
Most times the former,
and so far I’ve made it.

Terror comes at those frequent times
when it is known
they don’t make medicine for me.

, , , ,

  1. #1 by liv2write2day on February 10, 2011 - 12:45 pm

    I understand those feelings of fear and the what if’s and remember the days when we didn’t have those meds. You express this well in this poem.

    • #2 by Carl on February 10, 2011 - 8:31 pm

      Thank you so much, Victoria! Your comments mean the world to me.

  2. #3 by siubhan on February 10, 2011 - 5:22 pm

    That’s a scary place you’re talking about/from. this piece is strong from start to finish. very strong.

    • #4 by Carl on February 10, 2011 - 8:32 pm

      Thank you so much for your comment.

  3. #5 by Evelyn on February 10, 2011 - 7:31 pm

    Yes, absolutely.
    big sighs.

    • #6 by Carl on February 10, 2011 - 8:37 pm

      yes, sigh, sigh, sigh…

  4. #7 by Marian on February 10, 2011 - 10:54 pm

    you know, i know this poem is about something else but i am way all stuck on the image of overripe squash melting. like, i know what that is. that is slow and a bit decadent. i let them melt a little, and then put them outside in the cold to arrest the decay. ah, whatever.

    • #8 by Carl on February 11, 2011 - 6:27 am

      My goodness! You have a sharp mind. If I sit in a snow bank today, will I arrest the sadness? Maybe. My Chiropractor tells me to ice my neck and it works okay.

  5. #9 by Margaret on February 12, 2011 - 11:59 am

    Hope is not always so elusive. That poem does what it means to do.

    • #10 by Carl on February 13, 2011 - 7:59 am

      Thank you for commenting, Margaret!

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