A Year Ago

I called out of work sick again.
Not sick really, 
but there are no words for 
feeling a danger signal where there is none. 
Dissatisfaction? Disquiet? 
An itchy paint plastered to my smile 
cracking in the corners like a sob. 
“What is it with you?” 
“It’s always something with you.” 
Poised on the threshold between coming and going 
inching toward the door 
inching toward the if only’s–
If only this, then I’ll be happy, but 
in the yards and miles meeting the same old problems
the same old disappointment
that it’s not the places that feel a sense
of wrongness, it’s me,
I ignore 
because all the best art is born from pain–
but I’ve not been doing much writing these days.
Too sad even 
to thaw the ink from my pen, to connect. 
So, disconnected, my eyes on the horizon– 
I called out of work sick again.