By Shelly Moore
I’ve grown crows feet and put on weight.
Can’t recall the last time I had a date.
I still have yet to acclimate to this new state,
but that’s okay, y’all, let’s fckn celebrate.
Let’s eat a second slice of cake.
Let’s raise a glass and congregate.
And by congregate let me elaborate;
I mean stay at home and isolate.
Scroll the interwebs and speculate.
Reminisce while time accelerates.
YouTube it up to stimulate.
Give hours away to ruminate.
Let Watts’ words reverberate.
I’m enamored with how he communicates;
His accent and how he enunciates.
I hope to one day emulate
the simplicity with which he captivates.
He said, “We cannot be more sensitive to pleasure without being more sensitive to pain.”
“Total situations are, therefore, patterns in time as much as patterns in space.”
And said, “Things just are as they are,” about fate.
I could talk Alan Watts for days and days.
He was a sex-addicted alcoholic, some say.
He figured out how to play the game, I’d dare to speculate.
When I pass I wonder what they’ll say.
“She tried, bless her heart, but she wasn’t that great.”
Poems are a pain in the ass to punctuate.
Now, time to figure out how to be thirty-eight.