
Your Own Way
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I must say the “actually” in this prompt feels a bit accusatory and judgmental — as though, as a matter of practice, the answerer is generally unreliable. It also sounds like a question for someone with Dissociative Identity Disorder — otherwise who is making promises to whom? I am either one being or I contain multitudes, there being two seems at once too crowded and too lonely.







I’ve been caught in
many a sudden downpour.
And I’ve been warned by
the sweet scent of corn,
swept in though a
screen door,
or over the pasture.
But nothing in my flatland youth
prepared me to look down upon
the underside of a cloud —
to see its neatly-edged opaque
wall, defining the area
of deluge.
It wasn’t until much later that I’d
see the massive cloud columns
rising above the base layer
of a cloud floor —
warmly lit as seen from a
jetliner, though I knew it must
be brutally gray to
ground-dwellers.
The deluge closes slowly,
and yet I can’t escape it.
I aspire to be, but in the immortal words of Monty Python, “I am not dead yet!”
Getting up every morning.
The Weary Blues by Langston Hughes