Walk

6/13/2022

My wife has an enviable relationship with technology — she leaves the house without her phone — often seems oblivious to texts and other modern shortcuts — although this occasionally leads to her forgetting to be in touch — so I don’t know where she is or what is happening

Having grown up in an analog era — this not knowing was the cultural norm — When I get worried I need to acknowledge it’s primarily digital hyperconnected anxiety — besides I take comfort in knowing all the other times she failed to get in touch she was well

I needed to get out of the house today — along the predominantly random wander— encountered this box on the side of the road

After seeing this began to compose the following poem:

Note on a Sunny Day for Dying Friends
Incomplete poem composed 6/13/2022 -- Con/Jur/d

A bit too hot today
a commoner complaint
today, than it used to be
although we were dying
then too, it was easier 
to ignore, most of the
time, although, when
the fear grabbed on
it was always right
now or the next
thing; how many
hours were 
wasted, living 
under a future 
shadow

The accidental arbor 
we pass beneath along
this broken sidewalk
with the trees reaching
over and the parasitic
English Ivy, provides
a coolness, eases
thoughts of those
who proceeded us 
into the sunless
vast places

and we will never say
I love you enough
we will never
be loud
or true
enough

to fill what came before
or the inconceivable after

Yes — the poem isn’t done — but I don’t know if I’ll get back to it — if I do I’ll share it — Why share an incomplete piece? I liked the motion it made — however incomplete

Much love,

Con/Jur/d, 6/13/2022