Coming up on six decades of progress
By Edward Thomas-Herrera
And I cannot stop this awful marching. Forward, forward. Endlessly, endlessly. And out there lies a destination of some sort. Maybe. Surely. Maybe. A place warmed by sonnets and bourbon. But first: behold this squalid sink erupting with dirty dishes, this office desk, these hours spent at the gym, investing in my quality of life. Will someone please let me know when we get there so I can throw off this heavy winter coat? And I cannot stop this awful marching. Forward, forward. Endlessly, endlessly. And when I’m not riding in a car driven by my late mother, I’m trying to leave the house for the airport or a dinner date, but I can’t find my gloves and all the lights are on in the living room and someone’s scattered my script all over the floor and why are my shoelaces undone? And out there lies a destination of some sort. And lest we forget: revenge. Biography’s sweetest arc. I’ve got to prove them all wrong. I must, I must. All those grade school bullies, all those grad school professors, every beautiful boy who’s ever rejected my affections, every beautiful boy who never knew I was alive. Seth Brubaker. Endlessly, endlessly. And I cannot stop this awful marching. And so I sift through junk email. Forward, forward. And out there lies a destination of some sort. And credit card payments. And dentist appointments every six months. And blood pressure medication. And cholesterol medication. And thyroid medication. And so much dusting. Maybe. Surely. Maybe. And guilt – guilt and regret to spare. And will I ever finish reading Anna Karenina? And how is it Tuesday night again already? And I cannot stop this awful marching. Endlessly, endlessly. Pushing, pushing, pushing. And it’s all upstream. And it’s all so overwhelming. And I lock myself in the bathroom for a good, long cry. And all I want for Christmas is somewhere to sit down.
Bio: Edward Thomas-Herrera is a native of Houston, Texas where he earned a degree in musicology from Rice University. Later, he moved to Chicago, Illinois where he discovered poetry and playwriting. Edward’s work has previously appeared in Compressed, Beaver Magazine, The Account, Pearl Press, Peatsmoke Journal, Lost Balloon, and Twisted Tongue Press.
Author’s Note: This poem was inspired by my daily commute to work while struggling with depression and approaching my sixtieth birthday (hence the “six decades”). I often wondered if I would ever make it to sixty-one. Happy to report that I’ve since made it safely to sixty-two.
