Dr. Jekyll & Minced Meat Pie

I eat potato chips
after a work-out.
Sometimes I sneak
a smoke.
On tired nights I refuse
oral hygiene.
I get cavities.

Often, I don’t cook
for my kids.
I trim my own bangs
and harbor my own thin line
of resentments.
I yell at the dog.
I shove the cat
on better days.

I pick my teeth
and the walnuts
out of my chocolate chip cookies.
I don’t make my bed.
But then, I do.

And in case you were wondering,
it’s true:
I speak ill of my friends
and my parents
and my children
and everyone they know.

But I pass, sure.
A proletarian to some.
A Samaritan for many.
A terra cotta statue,
a Chinese brush stroke
a faux finish
a bas-relief.

Listen to my tone, now!
A perfect pitch,
harmonious hum,
the tongues of angels.
I lift.

But listen for the bells;
the sound of the alarm.
There comes the time
to alleviate the weight—
lighten the load—
unleash the burden
to prevent chronic fatigue;
repetitive stress.

My house is in shambles,
my body a mess,
my thoughts huddled,
shivering in a murky brine.

Friend, won't you carry my bundle a while?
Brother, can you spare a spine?

Winging it

One by one they’re flung
by an enormous catapult.
The elephants land with only a small, distant thud.

Is this too much?
Metaphors should be savored—
Stirred slowly, gently, not shaken.
Elephants, Darling, fling far too easily
as we rapidly thrust toward middle age.

Forgotten promises.
Loves unkempt.
Tossed resentments, larger than life.
This is not your mother’s Almost-Forty
or what granny always said would happen.

Cry, “Freedom! Incoming!”
unabashed.