01 Jan 2017 – Regrets

Woven of weird ideas – and wicked mean –
a strawman bloats in a peat bog, stinking.
All speculations specious – what’s the chance
he’ll arise, pick out the rotting pieces
on his own, run the Boston Marathon,
without dissolving in a putrid burst –
carpeting the pavement with his gobbets?

All thoughts: plaited braids of dysentery.
Theologians argue over what percent
at birth should be tossed out with the placenta –
bread rots even while the butter’s coming.
You did the best that you could do, and so
years spent crawling alleys to the ER
cannot be considered lost or wasted.