Forty-Two and Through with School

by Gerald Yelle

Last night, the sleep of a sandman’s minion

waiting for guns brought to church,

for the first bingo to pay for covering the swastika,
for downsizers eager to disarm the unarmed.
I awoke and checked the baby.

He’d been the life of the party.
He opened Leninger’s Biochemistry for maybe 10 minutes
on Saturday. I told him to tell me if he needed help
but he only wanted leaving alone.

I could use my energy to sleep.
I could wait till I feel really awful
before I try to get things done.

Binding arbitration with my mother.
Caulking the bathtub with my wife.
We haven’t been out since sitting on the piazza
with our tenants two tables away
and the baby so grown up.

One of my fears is that a program sweating
on a mouse pad
one night forecloses on my mortgage.
Not out to get me
—I see that from the start; but low performers

should really be renting.

Somewhere I’ve a copy of the last Old Test,
the last will, the wild country
where John the Baptist left his motorcycle.

There’s a fear of doing well

under the circumstances and a fear of failing

when conditions improve.

I’ve been meaning to make a will
and a history of this headache.

I overcame my hatred of doctors
—it was only when I was told I had nearly

taken my life

that I put my papers in order.

I never had the slightest wish but to leave

my headache its very own mineshaft.

My freewheeling speech I leave dry and undelivered.
It’s been the staff of life
—please handle with care.

My excuse I leave six flags of Jupiter,
the one-sided rose,

the left of Kilimanjaro.
The north face I leave my broken mouth
to which I leave commodities.
My family I leave illuminations.

I want to make it as light as teeth that

I suppose will grow when I’ve gone.

They’ll play the first tune you hear
coming out the bathroom:

The piano Uncle Phineas gave us.

I try holding the paycheck dry
but with the tub overrunning the last few days
it’s hard not to take your money.