This is weird. I just arrived, and I’m already noticing a few exotic dimensions here.
Today’s weather for writing: Dear wife home in the AM, as well as meeting at son’s school, and all kinds of followup emails afterwards. Then, pretty exhausted already. But – Power on, Garth!
Almost dinnertime now, and who knows why, but here’s what’s on the board at the mo, no title yet –

As senses age, they seem to get
more bruised by glare and noise—
not less, as I’d expected
and looked forward to.
Has life become more brightly lit?
Grown screechier?

If I’m descending into hell by parts
and afterlife will be
all headlights and cacophony—
oh dear, I have to stop!
Somebody pull the brake cord!
I’ll return to church!

I didn’t realize just how nice it was—
dim, quiet.
That’s exactly where I want to live,
and then, to after-live.
Damn place is like a womb,
and God’s interior a tomb.

A newborn wails.
It’s beaten by a dozen sticks—
a tined obstetrical examination lamp,
the neon blazing—
buzz and beep alarms—
so little joy, there’s heaven in a hood.

Tom Riordan lives in New Jersey. He’s a retired restaurant worker and teacher, and dreams about becoming pope for his next career.

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