a pin ball machine
Darting from ding to ding.
that’s the point
Get as much done as quickly as possible.
Ding-ding-ding-ding
Type a poem, while eating breakfast,
Still thinking of protein powder on Amazon,
wondering how the grands are doing in college.
Am I packing enough underwear for my trip?
And of course remembering to wish my Love
Good Morning,
Zing-zing-zing
Ding-ding-ding
But, by the end of the day, I’m exhausted
physically and mentally—-every ounce of ideas and energy,
wrung out—-
wanting nothing more than a quiet night
holding hands with my Love.
At night, if I see a movie or meet friends for Bunco:
it’s like putting in another coin for another round of pin ball.
But, I’m slow to hit
the buttons to complete a task.
The dings are slower—softer less inviting.
I drag myself to bed: body seeking rest.
But, as I lay down, my brain is still flipping that damn ball:
ideas zinging around the recesses of my brain:
Hour after hour.
Later, with my 10th trip to the toilet,
body weak from fatigue,
I finally slip into fitful sleep.
Not restful sleep, not recharging sleep—-
no REM, or deep sleep.
Like a pinball zombie, i awake in the moring , dragging my feet,
Fixing breakfast, needing my walker,
The zing has zonged and the ding has donged.
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