Diana Darby ** "I V" ** Intravenous

New Again

The truth is
I don’t want to write.
I have bored myself silly.
I am tired of my problems and your problems
and all the problems in the world.
I’m tired of hearing about the war in Iraq,
and the AIDS epidemic,
and another sex scandal
by some politician that everyone knew was gay anyway.
What does it matter anymore?
How many more lives will be lost today?
One hundred?
Two hundred?
Is it me or has everything become too rote?
There are no surprises.
Cell phones have taken away spontaneity.
Any new “news” in the world
reaches us within seconds of it happening.
The squirrel in my backyard
runs from fence post to fence post
and knows none of what I know,
yet seems far more content.
Somewhere,
all of it,
and I do mean all of it,
has gotten old.
Even the holidays.
Christmas
means hanging up the same old decorations,
getting out the same box of Christmas cards
and sending them to the same people
year after Yuletide year.
All of it has left me feeling empty.
I don’t feel Christmassy,
even though every mailbox, street lamp
and commercial is telling me to.
I have drunk Eggnog,
eaten peppermint candy,
and gone to the mall to see Santa,
but I feel nothing.
It is always the same.
I wish someone would invent something new.
Santa has a weird twin brother
who takes away gifts
or there’s an entirely new Saint we discover.
A hidden Saint.,
one who brings world peace
or ends poverty.
I don’t know.
None of the old things are working for me.
I am smothered in tinsel,
and fruitcake,
and cherry pie,
and pine needles.
My stockings are hung up with care,
but there’s nothing I want,
unless someone could give me a gift
to make me feel new again.