you get, the more you
can't remember,
but far worse
than that, the more
you can't forget. It's true;
it's a bitch. But
most galling of all
is how, one day
when it's nice out,
you find yourself
sitting on a parkbench,
and just watching
the grass ripple
tricks you into admitting
that the litany
of your grievances
is at best a little
fusillade of birdshit
on the otherwise-
serviceable monument
which grace had commissioned—
and then graciousness built—
and then
forbearance gave
as a gift
to existence.
