There was a time
I’d be pissed off right now,
5:30 on a Saturday morning,
Unsure about the weather,
And a half three hours away.
In the day, I’d be scrambling
For gels,
Carbs,
Layers.

Now I’m writing poetry,
Thinking about the dreams I had,
And looping an Anders Osborne song
In my head with only one coomplaint,
I don’t know enough of the words.

Distances are distances,
Times are times.
The race will get started,
I’ll finish whenever,
And maybe the rain will hold off
Or the dreams will come to life.

Tonight I had had enough of Trump.
I’m sick of the Republicans, the Democrats,
Both proclaiming to have my interests
At the top of their lists.

I had also grown tired of sports,
MLB, NBA, NCAA all initials
For greed and the monopolization
Of my time.

“That’s it,” I said,
Flipping to MeTv
To catch some lighthearted seventies sitcom hilarity
On an early episode of MASH.

There was a time
When I could recite every line of each episode,
But the show tonight felt new,
One that kind of reminded me of the greatness of the show.

It was funny,
The humor had a great bite to its political humor.
I sensed the same need for humor
In Korean/Vietnam war commentary and the current DC BS.

There was a gut punch, though.
Henry could not be with his newborn son.
Radar brought him a baby to hold.
I knew Henry would never see his son.

For later in the series,
Henry dies,
In one of the greatest episodes of television history.
I changed the channel during a commercial.

The scene on the screen made me want to scream
As reporters described children who may never see their parents again
Because they were taken away by an orange man
And his red-hatted haters.

Again, where is the comedy,
Where are the artists,
Where are the politicians who stand for something
Other than hyperbole and re-election.

I stuck with MASH,
Satisfied with the entertainment value,
More impressed with the social commentary,
And so disappointed with everything else.

Monkey mind wins,
Meditation is not in the cards
Tonight.
Is it work?
Is it home?
Is it Mr. J., my Irish friend?
No matter, I’m not attached.
Sleep is coming.