Splenetic

If I admit here that I've been splenetic,
Your equanimity, making you proud,
Should shame you. I entreated, pleaded, vowed,
Dismissed your meditative, dull aesthetic
As diuretic, you the dull ascetic,
An unballetic, an emetic shroud
For genuine emotion, a sad cloud
Of mere regret, not doubtful, nor syncretic.

You're not the worst thing that I've ever seen,
But pride's not called for. I demand the new,
The undeniable, the bold, the true,
And you were hiding. I was never mean,
And though you say you've had too much of spleen,
Great deeds were done, and none were done by you.

Ache

I wear a mask because my wife is sick,
And they insist, here in Intensive Care,
That no one ought to hold her hand, or share
A kiss, the way we did this morning. Pick
Any reason: like a moth to flaming wick
I'm drawn to touch her; I can hardly bear
To be apart from her, while standing there
Beside her, yet too far; my blood turns thick.

If I remember right, what helps is Scotch.
The nurses showed me how to pull each glove
As I exit. They're hovering above
The gauges and the instruments they watch:
The flashing numbers, and the telltale notch
On stark white bandaging. I ache with love.

Uneven Roads

Uneven roads have wearied me at last,
The ruts, the soft edge, all the dust and grime
In high midsummer, and the ice and slime
In winter, all those drivers rushing past
Along these roads to nowhere. They move fast,
Too quick to catch, and, turning on a dime
They whip away. There's never enough time,
And too much rotten roadway, dark, half-assed.

They tell me life, too, is uneven. True,
But not a big surprise. Catastrophe
Is usual, and our tenacity
Might get us out, or in, of any stew.
I don't like driving, though the car is new
And spring is best for roads here, certainly.

Helium Wind

If what you're calling a conspiracy
Is no more than a feeble, wilting gripe,
Then all this loud complaining is mere tripe,
A bagatelle of empty puffery.
There's no use in attempting to sway me:
I am a failure of a different stripe,
A bag of empty wind myself, as ripe
For picking as an autumn apple tree.

You say it's time for us to pay the piper,
But we were not the ones who called the tune.
I counted stars and stared up at the moon
While you expressed concern about a sniper
And told me I should learn to change a diaper.
I'm easy now, a helium balloon.