“I’m Ready to Go.”

Lines, no, cracks
in the walls—
all of them,
and the ceiling too;
the kind that morph
while you stare,
unaware,
drifting back and forth
from what was and
what can be.

I started packing
this morning, slowly,
still rigid with fear
that it will all start
folding in on me again,
drowning my voice,
shackling me to the past
like a stake and chain
for a dog.

It’s not that I want
to stay—I don’t;
The air here smells
like sweat and sick
and just a hint of desperation;
sunlight barely pushing
itself through five years
of rain scum
on the window panes.

Now there’s a curious
metaphor for sure,
the half-decade-old
film of forgotten responsibility
and lost opportunity
weighing me down,
causing the clown of bloodshot eyes and
rotten flesh to reappear,
a thick blanket of fear
wrapping around me, squeezing,
trapping my breath.

Last month, last year,
the last thousand years,
packed full of regrets
so heavy I spent most days
in bed or in my broken recliner.
If my vision were clearer back then
maybe I could’ve
recognized where I was—
then I would’ve been
(at least a little) more
likely to head to the door,

and flinging it open,
giving the sunshine at least
half a chance of falling on
my emaciated body, warming
my bones and clearing
my brain—which is, frankly,
a prerequisite to
freedom—victory from
the bondage of
self-deprecation.

No bother, though, because
I’ve been flexing my
heart lately, strengthening
my muscle of
hope now that I’m off dope;
shocked yet relieved that
I’m done with all that and
ready for this, whatever
this is—
I’m ready to go.

©2020 Steven Barto