i came away because the whining got to me

whining in all the colors of the rainbow

in all the letters of the alphabet

masturbatory in nature, which it always is,

whining whining whining whining

other places the self-promotion got to me

4,392 poems published here and there

with bright lights so everyone could whee and woo

i grow old but don’t wear the bottoms of my trousers

rolled except on Wednesdays, when the weather turns colder

and a salty spray comes in from the coast, my hair

resembles washed-out cord to tie to the sides of my dreams

to the dashed mast of youthful indiscretions

and all the things i would have done but for but for

and all the things before divorce or graduation, suicide

or the birth of children, i have lost my voice, lost the color

of the sky before the smog, cannot remember how the sea

was once before the oil spills changed the shape of days,

and it’s too early yet for carpe diem of the sort

that whines for one more hour at life’s preoccupations

and it’s too late for early plans, too late for sorry thoughts,

could i but stop the inner whine of worn-out gears

i might survive this age