If I do not witness these leaves turning orange, who will?
I stir myself:
I like to think
Of myself as a reincarnated Poet from the Tang Dynasty,
Dehydrated orange drink
Astronauts gulped orbiting this planet
That became a fun ‘60’s breakfast staple,
The bitter tang of a car’s squealing tires as it peels out,
Any distinguishing characteristic that provides special individuality.
Isn’t it a very personal moment when each of us
Recognizes we are failing,
That we’re incomplete, outdated perhaps,
& need something new to make us valid,
Sobbing on the mudroom floor,
Praying hands through a broken screen door,
Begging the aftermath of someone to come back,
Or watching our planet grow
Smaller below us
That we discover it is
To ever become
One hundred percent reconstituted?
I am not where I am right now, in this autumn.
My mind is not what it used to be either.
There is no more just-add water.
None of us can prove our previous lives.
I mean pervious: I meant disprove: