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 bench,
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.