Under the influence this morning

of reading a terrific book of poems

given to me by my sister,

I confess

that sometimes

I can over-indulge.


Like the Wheat Thins

I ate last night.


(I ate way more

than were necessary.)


I ate them

like a Wheat Thin-eating machine,

accompanying them with “seriously sharp” cheese

and seriously-satisfying beer,

but I ate 

more than I should have.


And this morning I read

more poems than I should have.

And yesterday I played 

more notes than I should have –

even though I haven’t played

any notes on my flute or recorder

in years.


Overdosing on…





Wheat Thins


… I’ve discovered that

my capacity to indulge 

has been lost

with the bloom of youth,


and that

regrettable sobriety

must rule my passions, 

which is a bummer.