by Don Two
A resolution goes laughably awry.
|My resolution for two thousand fifteen|
was to abate stress the best that I could.
I vowed a vow at the end of December
to ease and chill for my overall good.
It seemed appropriate goal for yours truly;
high hopes all right yet not touching the sky.
I vowed it as that Time’s Square ball was falling;
(I am a practical sort of a guy.)
Yet before long as the new year found footing,
my resolution turned into a mess.
Because they came full of spirited pulling--
they were the Gallant Suppliers of stress.
Shiny white suits with cigar smoke in passing,
bulky in mass charging in like a bull.
Strong-arming, neck-wrenching shoulder pang bullies;
I like a puppet was there for the pull.
“Come, let us disjoint you,” they said with smiles;
my resolution in memory balked.
I ran as far as intention could take me,
yet with resolve did those gallant ones stalk.
I hid beneath Grandma’s afghan in silence;
I meditated while breathing in deep.
Later when prone on my old queen-sized mattress,
Gallant Suppliers came purloining sleep.
Then in the morning I said to Suppliers:
“You do not own me--I am my own boss!”
Yet through the day they continued to bind me;
it was like being tied with dental floss.
So I drove gladly on countryside highways,
taking in views of the bucolic land.
But the Suppliers adhered to my bumper,
gallantly riding as if it were planned.
Rounding a bend I discovered a tavern;
I went inside since unwinding was dear.
But when the waitress brought draft to my table,
those from my bumper put egg in my beer.
The more I tried to find ease, I was countered;
it became rib-tickling slapping of knee.
And at the first sign of stress mitigation,
Gallant Suppliers guffawed gleefully.
40 Lines (Rhythm: 11-10-11-10)