face it

malaise. from malice. she looks at this birthday

from one, with the other. it's unknown the kind

of life she could lead from here. so   she buys 

a new car. it keeps her at the job another seven years

if she survives that, then perhaps she could stop

look around, see if there is any more reason to keep going.

she keeps thinking of dying. not in a suicidal way, she's

not brave enough for that. she doesn't want cancer

or some other wasting disease. so she's hoping to maybe stroke out

or have a massive untreatable heart attack, an auto accident, 

or suicide bomber at the mall. just so it's quick, she thinks.

and what of the man. what if he wasn't here?

would she feel the same way? life offerings complete

love in all its measure-apparently  hers now. well not all.

if he were supporting her. that would be the  thing

she hasn't done since adulthood, beholden to someone

else's whims. he ex husband would not agree nor would she

if she were honest. he didn't support her so much as

whim her into obiescence.  so there was that. but she thinks

she would like to be the one keeping the hearth alive. 

it looks like that might be after the car's all paid off

if she can budget her money well enough to pay rent

for a couple of years. squeeze out some writing. self publish

at seventy. what a dream. oh wait, this begain with a man.

what if he wasn't here. but he is. he says he's staying.

she's not so sure about that. eventually she kicks 

everyone out or leaves herself.  what ever she thinks.

whatever. 

*(*(

but  this age . is  the full admission to aarp

the senior discount, the exit from any demographic that matters.

she is trying to get used to the idea of irrelevancy, as if

anything or one has intrinsic relevance. that's the whole point

she thinks. it doesn't! relevance is about the viewpoint 

from outside this bag of skin, looking at it. 

going to pot is more than a ballot amendment

it's the round shape of belly  converging with gravity laden tits.

the gray hair sundays, the slow driving, the inability to grasp

her own phone's operations, lack of music, lack of caring

it's the whole damn bagel, with cream cheese, locked. 

)*80

bleh, probably this is why she stopped writing anyway.

may as well be pushing buttons as writing this whiney shit.

pet rescue saga, where are you?.