Half Full, Half Empty

 
When I hear someone say
the year is halfway over, 

I'm seized and held hostage 
again by a retinue of doubts 

and demons. It's like they're 
listening in the plaster or curled 

around cornices. I've been taught 
not to trust them, even when they billow 

in skirts of tangerine and dotted yellow, 
or speak in the manner of trained

parrots. Especially parrots, their one 
lyric following me through the day, 

screeching, pressing me to make use 
of what limited light and time I have.

O but the rain breaks free of the clouds:
it's coming down now over the orange 

deck umbrella I forgot to close. It's drawing 
little slanted lines across the panes,

and it's a weird comfort to watch
how it writes and writes and it seems

it will never ever finish— how could it 
ever? Until just like that, it's done. 



 

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