How I love to consider ceiling beams
rafters, and girders.
And how on overcast days
that are cold and lonely
I dream of swinging
amongst the mighty, fickle branches
of old oaks and stately dogwood.

But modern buildings
hide their beams
far above drop ceilings
composed of cheap acoustic tile.

And I don't understand me,
no I don't understand myself
or my predilection
for flaming out.

Give me enough time
and I can fail spectacularly at anything.
Actually, no,
I always go out with a whimper.

My last boss let me know
without ever saying a Word
that I'd never be good enough
to lick His boots.

I tried
once,
twice,
maybe even three times the charm
and all I did
was give myself a rash.

Then I tried to lull myself to sleep,
but twice I was woken up
only to find no one was there at all.

I've yet to try baking cookies with Sylvia,
I've yet to try it,
for whatever fear I have.

The worst thing?
The absolute worst thing about days like today?
Hope.