A Poem

An Old Man’s Thoughts In His Home

Crawling across broken glass becomes a chore

when I am too blind to sweep it up. The only part 

of listening I’m aware of becomes having listened. 

The glass crunches. The dining area spreads light 

through tiny diamonds and grains of quartz. 

I want whatever anyone wants—

for the pain to stop, for the bright spot on the sun

to start singing again.

My version of thinking is a task that can never 

be practiced. Birds meander between the vowels

of my voice. I want to be reminded of smooth skin, 

how it does the job clothing can’t. I want to stop

in the middle of the road to watch a girl pass,
to be reminded of how I felt when she 

bent over. The curtains let in light furious to the eyes. 

Only a downcast gaze can slow me.

What joy is there in remembering what 

I have accomplished?

I may as well have done nothing.

What understanding can fathom miscomprehension?

The sentence I can’t understand my neighbor

can elaborate on. The psychologist says I simply have

lower intelligence, as if he knows why we err. 

Sometimes stupid people miss the mark

not because they lack intelligence but because

they possess stupidity.