Everything seems to get in the way;
dutiful obligations, and orangatang chatter
In my head keeps me tied up in knots,
preventing me from being present.
A sharp-eyed umpire from on high, cries foul,
even though I’m running in line as fast as I can.
I trip over slithering copperheads at every turn.
How can I find love in a world saturated with hate?
Work is a beehive of buzzing bees.
$100-dollar bills rain down in my dreams,
but evade my grasp when I reach for them.
Grandma advised, Health is wealth,
but always own a piece of land.
Driving a car on New Jersey highways
is like going into hand-to-hand combat.
There are so many things to worry about.
I hear my mother singing to my father,
Enjoy yourself, it’s later than you think.
Maybe I should just stay home and hide
under the bed like my aunt Ida, a survivor
of the Triangle Shirtwaist Factory Fire
who was convinced she saw swastikas
on the shadows of her bedroom walls.
Determined to avoid life, she pleaded, It’s just too hard!