PROMISE

1 1 3 R P R O M I S E M O L L Y P E A C O C K When I see me slump, defeated in my chair, should I disturb me? Or should I leave me there in my cave, in my brain, my truck, lake, lair, dive, booth, toilet seat, back bench, barstool -equivalent of slumping in my chair undressed, in my pajamas, unaware? Though groomed, me looks tousled. Me’s three: something’s frayed or delayed – and I’m back there, through wadis, through arroyos, where the glare of an absorbing sun sucks the moist air into a wheeze. I breathe a shallow breath, defeated in my chair. Snug hood of fear. I’ll never shout or dare to have a bold idea or simply stretch in ease or find someone worth beguiling while I’m lost in there. But that’s my fear to conquer. Till I repair, I must not leap. Not call, cajole, mock, or appease when I slouch, defeated, even in a straight-back or a dentist’s chair, desk chair, club chair, a theater seat. Don’t we all deserve a good slump, even so deep it unnerves the loving witness who cannot please us, temp-gods, constructed of the air wethinks we need to breathe, but don’t need? Agreed. I’ll leave me there. ...