Potentially Profligate

I tire
of being the sane one.
The quiet one.
The self contained one
who needs so little.

I would rather,
for a season at least,
be profligate,

to move to an artist’s loft in paris
and paint the rain and romance
while sipping wine and dishes rich
with sauces and joy, and to sip
glorious coffee like a refuge,

or drift the canals of Venice,
and shop the markets with fish and shrimp,
so fresh they dance in their burial bins,
and cook madly good food to share
with strangers and lovers alike;

or steal a bright red Bugatti,
and drive too fast on back roads
without a suitcase or map,
or even a destination,
reveling in the wind through my thinning hair
gleefully singing songs by Little Richard and Aretha,
off key, and loud.

Ah yes. A man can dream.
and perhaps here and there,
for a day or two, dreams may come true
and I can let my sanity fly away
for just a while.

But not today.
Not tomorrow.
And no, not the day after that.

About this poem

I was thinking about my mom on the long drive north to Vermont tonight. She used to say she never helped me when I was young, because even as a young child, I always seemed so self contained, so strong and sane.

I don’t feel strong and sane. And at times, I think it would good to leave strong and sane behind, just for a while maybe and be that strange uncle who ran off and…

But since that is not in the cards,. I wrote this poem.

Tom

PS – The car is actually a Mercedes, I think, not a Bugatti. But I love how the word Bugatti sounds.