The Age of Efficiency
by Tim Kahl
At the pep talk for the heart failure management group
the clinician warns all of us about depression.
She informs us that napping in the afternoon
and overeating ice cream aren't surefire signs.
Beware of waning interest in things
you've always had a fondness for.
But, I interject, couldn't this be a good thing
if you've always had a keen attention
for women who are too young for you?
How do you know you haven't just matured?
She noticeably sags out of exasperation.
It seems I've missed the point again.
Or once more I have willed myself against
a caretaker's cautious construction
of the way I should meet my days.
What happened to the age when I could
grab my ass with both hands and
just jump in? Now I'm being carried
out to deeper water, still treading comfortably,
but a certain vague sense appears
of someone on the shore expecting
me to disappear beneath the surface.
I won't go under. Is that refusal
or my being ineffectual?
There's no standard to which I can appeal
that will help me sort out this question.
There's no uncorrupted ideal either.
If I want an answer to why I slow down the show
of my own demise, whether I'm stubborn or
just lazy, there's this husky voice
clearly vested in the outcome that speaks:
Hey buddy, take a number. This ain't no place
to contemplate values — ya' just get it done cheap.
Gyroscope Review 4! 9