I am the loudest thing in these woods

A poem.

Graphic by author.

My only solace
in listing all the shit this year brought
is that I spent it with my dog.

I wonder if this is some cruel trade,
her soft fur for all my pain.

I want to be an old writer of some esteem.
That way, when some young journalist
(whose name I’ll be too aloof to recall)
asks me about my writing from this period,
I‘ll look back with indifference when I say
it was all rage.

I am the loudest thing in these woods,
no matter how lightly I traipse.
I am cold.
I am — -I am, I am.
I am so tired.

And I can’t ask you
to hold on for
better days.

Days when the sun streams in
and everyone is suddenly, simply
reliable.

Days when no one is crass and everyone loves you
the right amount at the right times.

I cannot ask
but I am begging.