Having it Out with Myself

If many remedies are prescribed for an illness, you may

    be certain that the illness has no cure.

                        A.P. Chekhov, The Cherry Orchard

...or, shall I compare thee to the brambles and briars
of my life?
The complications, the wheelbarrows full of mulch?
The old buildings I scrape and paint?
The confusion and complications in not knowing
ways you make me feel some days when I was sure
everything was going well, but now I know it's not;
but I don't know why.

The maddening knots we tie ourselves into
the suddenness of wanting to be alone
the compulsion to lash out
the late feelings of guilt and sorrow
the empathy
the pain
of being alone and with you
at the same time,
but not knowing why?

‎...or, shall I compare thee to baseball
the summer sun, or
cold beer in the shade
of beach umbrellas
as the breeze
from all my past summers
containing the sameness,
the tallow of tanning lotions
the sand filling up with waves
of memories as high tide
washes in...

Oh, summer's day complete
this ideal dream
your close
heart beats in harmony
with mine.

...or, a spring evening
on the back porch of my life
feeling a damp coolness
sweeping up from the creek
out of the woods
across the garden
&
into my bones
while I smile an illegal smile
the kind Grand Marnier
will stem, but only
when I let it.