over seventy windblown years
tied to the mast, patience has eluded me
leaving me to hum along the shrillest
siren call in grating irritation
struggling to find or develop
a minimal measure of discernment
to catch my breath, one breath
between the healing itch the mending pain
and the vicious nag of wounding aches
might say my suspicious mind
dove for a dark, silty bottom
and found the drain unclogging gratitude
or trust to sluice and flush a pressured dram
of bittersweet relief

. . .

David Rodriguez is a 71-year-old prodigal son trapped in a Ground Hog Day loop. The thought that all the scribblings of my circuitous, rambling life will either end up in the dumpster or belong to a posterity I will never see has been keeping me up at night lately.