Old, alone, barely afloat,
failed at Wordle, invented a few verbs,
flushed my meds, I move cursor
to screen’s edge, and off.
Isolation now a distress syndrome
of sorts. Much like the tug
to wade across a swollen stream,
no undertow in sight. Depression
increases despair by a factor
of, say, ten. Dumps me into a river,
roar upstream and down,
compass askew, spinning
as if on stacked magnets.
Leaves little hope for rescue
from nostalgia because pain
splashes me with each departure.
Nor relief from any religion,
all having one tenet in common:
life will get much better — after
I’m dead. So, I paddle here, withered,
shiver like a soaked metaphor,
try hard to believe the falls
won’t plop me into an empty bra cup
large enough only to bathe a robin.