My Speech

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I never received my concocted potion

The one I’d ordered, for I’m an adult

May it stave off the foggy notion I’ve forgotten who I was growing to be

I’d ordered it to compliment my life

I mean -balance my meal

That’s what adults say, don’t they?

It’s okay, the delay, but bring it, damn it!

Said with a smile that hopefully hides

My slight disgust with myself for wanting, no -needing- the potion at all

Bring it

Before I am faced with the oh-so uncomfortable

To leave here bright-eyed and examining

My un-slurred self-talk

My speech

Impulse

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A person, willowy or firm

Of thought or fortitude

One about so tall

Needn’t think as a single

Leaf or brick or synapse or impulse

Who cannot move at all

Not on a day such as this

As water gleams

As sun shines

Someplace

On this where that we are

nation

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Dismay to disillusion. Hours glued to days and weeks and years. We stay stuck here. Must we? Were we thinking when we set down age-old shovels, we’d need to dig our way through? Was there only feelings? An absence of logic? Dismay. We’d not conceived to land on muddy, sinking sand. Now there is no hand -nay, not even our own- willing, it seems, reaching, to pull us up. Disillusion. A notion. A nation. Were we any we at all?