Nobody Reads This Page: “A Journey, Interrupted” (Part Three)

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(9-26)

 

 

“Be patient and tough; someday this pain will be useful to you.” – Ovid

 

I arrived at Geauga Hospital only days before my 65^th birthday. But more than being mindful of that significant chronological anniversary, I was struck by the fact of having reached such an important milestone without ever being housed in a care facility. My health was never a great concern during years of working as a professional writer, retail clerk, and manager. I had gathered inertia during a long life that propelled me through many experiences, including two marriages, and the publishing of over 50 printed volumes. But with my formal admission as a patient to the local medical center, I met an immobile boundary of consequences.

 

For many years, I had been a speeding train in perpetual motion. Now, I was stalled, stunned, and sapped of energy.

 

A visual inspection of my leg, at least from a personal perspective, did not tell the tale. Yet when under the microscope, the nature of my affliction became disturbingly apparent. The open wound on my left leg was infected, and critical. An immediate remedy was to pump my body full of antibiotics, and elevate the limb. This massive infusion of chemicals worked so rapidly that at first, a doctor who was on duty overnight surmised that my sore must have been cleaned at the ER in Geneva. But indeed, I assured him that they had not taken any such measures, beyond starting a regimen of IV infusions. With a sort of magic effect, the irritated flesh had begun to clear. Though I was still quite far from being healed, and released.

 

The physician did his work with an appropriate level of attention and skill. But then added a remark that made me smile, despite being groggy and uncomfortable. He spoke with an unusual amount of ironic amusement, and candor.

 

“So Rodney, they tell me you do not like Conneaut?”

 

I was somewhat disoriented by this point, after spending most of the previous day in Geneva. But the directness of his query cleared my head.

 

“My family resides here, in Hambden Township. Literally a matter of minutes from this building. Going to the eastern community of Conneaut would have been a hardship for everyone involved. I made my preference clear, but that opinion did not seem to resonate at first. However once I repeated myself, with more gusto, the message was apparently received. The woman who confronted me went running for cover...”

 

I was on a virtual carousel of nurses, doctors, assistants, interns, and aides. So, as he disappeared into the maze of patient rooms and other, mysterious departments, this grand wheel kept spinning. In a sense, I had fallen out of time, much like a traveler through the cosmos. I felt lost and listless.

 

Sadly, I could not find a comfortable spot in bed, which was perhaps predictable. This meant that actual sleep came only in brief intervals. If I did manage to shut my eyes for a moment, those precious and fleeting encounters with unconscious repose were interrupted by a request for blood, a check of vital signs, or to take new medicines.

 

At some point in the morning, I heard my roommate ordering breakfast. The specified choices sounded delicious, with eggs, bacon, sausage, and potatoes all being available. Yet my appetite had been sidelined. My belly resisted the lure of solid food, as it attempted to cope with an influx of healing fluids, ebbing through a spike in my arm.

 

This restrictive arrangement of being laid flat on a thin, commercial mattress soon had the debilitated joints in my body howling to receive mercy. I was aching for reasons that were unrelated to the cause of my extended stay. Added to this woeful mood was a sense that I had been disconnected from my own existence by circumstance. I wanted to sit at my desk and work at the keyboard. Or perhaps, to go outside, to my front porch for fresh air and comfort. But neither of these pleasant options were available.

 

I learned by observation, that the unfortunate fellow who lay on the other side of a retractable curtain that split our room was named Frank. And I heard him describe having fallen at home, with a shoulder fracture resulting. Boldly, I called out from my side of the fabric veil, to engage him in polite conversation. A strategy rooted in shared sacrifice. I reckoned that neither of us were particularly thrilled with our current predicament. But perhaps, through the art of describing our fates to one another, that burden might be lessened, at least temporarily.

 

“Hey, I can hear that you’ve had a rough ride getting here, neighbor. I can make a similar claim, myself. But as they say in the common vernacular, ‘it is what it is.’ Do you have a good prognosis for getting better?”

 

My associate on the other side said that he had been alone for several hours before being discovered at his home. He had other health concerns that exacerbated his condition, but still sounded confident enough to pursue goals of treatment and wellness. I surmised that he was about a decade younger. But most surprising of all was his reaction when I mentioned having been a salaried co-manager for Giant Eagle.

 

“I was in retail operations for 33 years. My final assignment was at a private location in Geneva, under the ownership of David Archinal. He later sold the business to Chris Piovarchy and his sons. They were already in control of the Ashtabula store, which was once held by Ernie Springer. He had been a veteran of Fazio’s, and knew my business partner Randy, in the early days of Pittsburgh moving into this market area.”

 

Frank brightened with my mention of the food emporium on Route 534.

 

“If you worked in Geneva, then you must know their personnel manager? She and I grew up on opposite sides of the same road. We’ve been friends for a long time...”

 

This coincidence made my face tingle. Despite being randomly thrown together, by different medical maladies, we had found a commonality that made us connected. That alone eased my mood, as the day unfolded.

 

I did not vocalize my thirst for a cold brew, while resting. Though with every passing hour, that craving became more intense. Coffee and ginger ale served to satisfy my desire for refreshment, temporarily. Yet I still lacked a robust appetite for anything edible.

 

A day later, someone ordered an unexpected tray of food to be delivered to my bed, in the early hours. It was far from delicious, as I had imagined, but I managed to tolerate the eggs and a cup of grapes. What I guessed must have been a bowl of oatmeal frightened me with its taste and texture. I did not bother with anything else on the plate.

 

Most of all, I simply wanted to go home. Being at the hospital was unfamiliar and challenging to accept. But, that privilege of liberation would be withheld, until the state of my leg issue had improved.

 

 

 

“Sacrifice”

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(9-26)

 

A sacrifice of self

Browsing through personalities pilfered from the bookshelf

Each one with its own appeal

A difficult decision, over which one to steal

This is the conundrum I face

While considering the shrink of my personal space

To a square, constricted

As I sit here, feeling conflicted

The chronology of a mortal span

Defining who and what I am

With an effective curve of the grade

An arc, dutifully displayed

In a time long lost, I was confident to leap

Under a bridge, falling fast asleep

A stone for my pillow

Dirt and dust, below

It amused me to face challenges that were pressing and dire

Rotating ‘round the spokes of a bicycle tire

I was worn but undeterred

My only quest was a call to be heard

And when, by chance, an ear inclined

I marveled at that gift as if it were fancy and fine

To think that a listener lingered for long enough

To hear me tell stories of living in the rough

A black leather sheaf and boots on the concrete

High-stepping like a Clydesdale, along North Cayuga Street

I could tread a dozen miles in a day

Many years before becoming a dried-out lump of clay

One no longer easily shaped by a potter at the wheel

A measure of mud shorn of its appeal

My identity is one taken off the rack

An accurate rendering of qualities that I lack

This is the style of an artist at the canvas

To portray what emerges from the emotional abyss

I am what I pretend to be

I am what my mind can conceive to see

Eyes forward, and sharp

Angels plucking at the lyre and harp

As a tonal background for the poetic bard

A mastery of misplaced keys and a shuffle of cards

A few pages further, will I go

To populate this show

Would it surprise you to hear me admit

That my range of talent hasn’t amounted to shit?

I am the same peripheral scholar at work

On the edge of a literary quirk

Written in pencil on a laundry receipt

Which now lies curled and crumpled, at my feet

A note of yesterday passed

A glimmer now gone, reflected in the window glass

Through which I see the horizon as sunset unfolds

And the hollow state of my soul

Something I must confront when readiness comes

With a washboard and a barrel, a rattle and hum

Stomping out a rhythm on the floor

As did stars of the stage, in performances of yore

Fingering frets

Singing of sacrifice and regrets

And needing to walk around the room to loosen the grip

Of an arthritic episode, spun in a film clip

Lens toward the heavens to catch

A glimpse of fates that remain unmatched

This gallery of faces is mine to peruse

Which one is my doppelganger? Which one will I choose?

It is a flight of fortune, founded on a wish

To be bolder than a tumbler of Grand Macnish

Raised at a downtown pub, with chums from the avenue

While a quartet of performers play Jazz and Blues

And I remember that my original cause

Was to evade the clutching of clandestine claws

And make my choice

Nobody Reads This Page: “A Journey, Interrupted” (Part Two)

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(9-26)

 

 

“People are afraid of themselves, of their own reality; their feelings most of all. People talk about how great love is, but that’s bullshit. Love hurts. Feelings are disturbing. People are taught that pain is evil and dangerous. How can they deal with love if they’re afraid to feel? Pain is meant to wake us up. People try to hide their pain. But they’re wrong. Pain is something to carry, like a radio. You feel your strength in the experience of pain. It’s all in how you carry it. That’s what matters. Pain is a feeling. Your feelings are a part of you. Your own reality. If you feel ashamed of them, and hide them, you’re letting society destroy your reality. You should stand up for your right to feel your pain.” – Jim Morrison

 

Speeding through the shared experiences of unemployment and disability was something I had embraced for nearly a decade, after leaving my career as a retail manager. It became commonplace to struggle, cut corners, and jettison old habits when necessity intervened. I did not spend too much time pondering my own condition under a harsh light of introspection. Instead, I simply careened forward, greeting each new challenge with a shrug and a sigh. I rarely sought help from others. And I did not fret over lost joys or surrendered liberties.

 

Pain provided guardrails that were useful in charting this new path. What hurt too much got deleted from my daily routine. What I could bear, retained its importance.

 

This runaway roll was interrupted by the appearance of my leg wound, and its subsequent infection. For the first time since facing an early retirement in 2016, I was confronted by a metaphorical roadblock that could not be avoided or ignored. The medical I faced issue loomed over my head like a gathering storm. It pressed upon me to think, reason, and act in a timely manner. All things that I never did unless prodded by dire circumstances.

 

In the Emergency ward at Geneva Hospital, I had waited throughout the day for some remedy to my worsening condition. But despite a flurry of tests, trials, and tribulations, I was no better. Then, long after the hour of midnight, I was informed that my status as a patient would be updated with an overnight change of venue. The young nurse with whom I had sparred verbally, during this extended period of confinement, posed in the doorway again.

 

“Rodney, your chariot awaits, outside! An ambulance is going to move you to Geauga Hospital, outside of Chardon. Good luck to you!”

 

I was somewhat groggy and very stiff. When the two-man team entered my room, their gurney glistened in a bright shade of industrial yellow. It appeared to be even more minimalist and unforgiving than the foam-lined rack where I had been situated. For a moment, I wondered if it would be suitable for a fellow of 350 pounds, with failed joints, declining agility, and a teetering sense of balance. In addition to carrying a festering hole between my left knee and ankle. But one of the trained duo pointed at a low spot in the middle of his mobile appliance.

 

“That is where your butt will land, sir. Get into position and we will take care of everything else...”

 

I hobbled across the floor, and flopped on cue. There was a metallic groan of stress from the device, but it held my weight with sufficient structural rigidity.

 

Being belted in was necessary, to keep me from bouncing off this wheeled platform, during my after-hours road trip. But once I had been secured in the back of their vehicle, and felt the inertia of motion taking over, a visceral tingle of fear remained about being flipped like a pancake. The boxy carriage shuddered, shook, and swayed, as we departed from Geneva. It proved to be noisy, hot, uncomfortable, and quite surreal.

 

Quietly, I added it to a mental roster of ‘never before have I done this’ experiences.

 

My view out the rear windows was clear enough to recognize a glow of advertising signs and facility illumination, along the way. I was intent on keeping track of our route, as a slight uneasiness over being threatened with a stay in Conneaut still had me rattled. But as our voyage through the darkness continued, I was able to tick off familiar geographical landmarks that bolstered my confidence.

 

While traveling, the fellow who sat with me went through virtual paperwork to document their performance. A cuff constantly kept track of my blood pressure. A finger clip registered my pulse and vital signs. He asked questions of a medical nature, about my family history, recent events at home, and lifestyle choices, But then, began to converse on a personal level. This diversion from his professional duties, to the polite banter of a stranger met by chance, helped to settle my stomach, and evoke a mood of calm.

 

“You’ve got a fireman next door where you live in the country? He sounds like someone I met in the past, probably. That has to be a benefit for the community where you live. We all travel in the same circles, providing mutual aid and rescue, as needed. It’s about helping when we can, and transporting those who have gotten into trouble in a safe and secure manner. Not to mention, drinking lots of coffee at all hours of the day and night!”

 

His comment resonated with authenticity. I recalled that while I was sometimes out with my neighbors, enjoying the warmth and comfort of a summer campfire, the fellow next door would be carrying his mug and staying alert. I confessed that having such individuals present in my rural enclave was a pleasure.

 

“Not everyone could make those sacrifices, willingly. But I salute you for staying strong and vigilant. Thank you for your service!”

 

We arrived around half past one o’clock. I noted that the emergency truck backed into a space at an isolated corner of the building. No entrance was visible as they extracted me from the vehicle. But a keypad glowed from its location by a set of anonymous, metal shields at the side. Upon entering a security code, these doors parted, and I was introduced to a ramp and hallway, which led inside the hospital facility.

 

Suddenly, the environment became crowded, frantic, and boisterous. Everyone had their own unique responsibilities, with a corresponding lane to occupy. This symphony of need played out as I was whisked to my spot on the second floor. The gurney zig-zagged through corridors, up on an elevator, and into a room that already had one guest in place. All without causing a hindrance to the staff, visitors, cleaning crew, or current patients being treated.

 

I had not eaten in more than sixteen hours. Yet my belly resisted the notion of accepting any food, due to the multiple doses of antibiotics that I had already received via an IV drip. Still, when one of the team mentioned that cold, turkey sandwiches were available, with ginger ale, I decided to accept her offer of basic sustenance.

 

As I lay outstretched on the bed, with my left leg tingling, I feasted on the snack until fatigue resonated in my head. Then, I nodded off at last.

 

My first direct encounter with the medical discipline of a care center was now underway.

Nobody Reads This Page: “A Journey, Interrupted” (Part One)

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(9-26)

 

 

“Pain and guilt can’t be taken away with the wave of a magic wand. They’re the things we carry with us, the things that make us who we are. If we lose them, we lose ourselves. I don’t want my pain taken away. I need my pain!” - William Shatner

 

For nearly a decade after the end of my career in retail management, I have been living a routine best described by evoking the visual image of a speeding train. Rolling forward at a pace unhindered by too much introspection or self-analysis. With conditions of disability mounting, and resources dwindling, I simply tightened my circle and went about the business of existing in the moment. It is a plan executed on the basis of practicality and need, not to attain any personal desire. And for more than nine years, it has worked well enough to celebrate on a regular basis.

 

I have maintained my independence through a blend of determination, and luck.

 

But a recent detour from this journey arrived as I noted that the skin on my lower, left leg had begun to peel. It was a curious sight, to be sure. Almost as if I had suffered a severe sunburn between my knee and ankle. Except that I knew no such injury had occurred. I did not fall, or bruise myself. There was no point of contact with a sharp edge or stubborn piece of household furniture. I had simply manifested some odd sign of circulatory issues, which persisted for several days afterward.

 

I watched this area carefully for about a week, and noted that it had reddened in color, and spread along the axis of my limb. This reminded me of chronic conditions I had witnessed with my mother, brother, and sister over a period of years. That familiarity was troubling, and also, motivational. I immediately contacted my primary-care physician via an online app for University Hospitals, a health provider based in Cleveland with local centers around my region.

 

I had expected to be immediately called in for an exam, but lingered for another seven days before being given a face-to-face appointment. I guessed by the progression of my wound, that there would be some kind of cleaning, followed by a compression wrap for good measure. But when I was able to reveal my issue directly, in a patient room, the reaction of my doctor came swiftly.

 

She sent me to the Emergency Room at Geneva Hospital, without delay.

 

Due to strong genes and the benefit of good habits, I had never needed to seek attention under such drastic conditions. But upon entering the ward as a new guest, I was immediately processed and put in a temporary room where a series of tests and scans began to happen. A portable x-ray machine took images of my lower extremity. It reminded me of a robotic creation intended for use in a science-fiction series. An IV drip of antibiotics was hung and connected to a spike in my left arm. There were checks for blood pressure, oxygen levels, and a lengthy list of questions about how this issue had arisen.

 

As these frantic events transpired, episodes of Spongebob Squarepants played on a flat-screen monitor, overhead. That ironic backdrop kept me amused during my confinement.

 

Assessing the leg ulcer in medical terms was not difficult. I had suffered an opening in my flesh, with an infection resulting which aggravated the limb. I did not have any other symptoms which were related to that kind of problem, however. No chills, fever, dizziness, or trembling. Yet my path, unfortunately, was clear.

 

I was a matter of hours from turning 65, and had never spent the night in a hospital facility. But now, with my fate sealed by happenstance, I was about to meet this experience head-on, much like falling from a cliff into a canyon, below.

 

Instead of channeling the vibe of Patrick Star, I now assumed the demented groove of Wile E. Coyote.

 

The bed on which I had been placed was a minimalist provision. Functional as a necessary appliance, but no more. It quickly chafed my posterior, and caused an ache of discomfort. Eventually, because I had lingered for so long, aides on the staff relocated me to a different space that was slightly larger, but situated next to an elevator used by nurses and other employees. The persistent noise added to my uneasiness, though I remained wholly distracted by the original purpose of my visit.

 

Blood samples had been taken, and were being analyzed as I waited. I managed to find a televised baseball game being played by the Cleveland Guardians, and viewed that lively sporting event from my corner of the room.

 

I had already lost track of the time, but was unaware. A palpable sense of detachment had taken hold. I was sinking deeper into the drama of a tissue inflammation.

 

A scheduler on the team said that I would be sent to Conneaut, for further examinations and treatment. But I reacted immediately to her decision. I knew that the distant facility would be inconvenient for my own family, who all lived in Hambden Township, near the City of Chardon, and Geauga Hospital.

 

“Why can’t I stay in the area instead of being sent so far from home? I have no desire to get shipped out to any random care depot!”

 

I thought that my opinion had been expressed politely, and in diplomatic terms. But after a long interval, the same woman appeared in my doorway, with a plea to accept being trafficked to the spot she had suggested, before.

 

“Mr. Rodney, we are sending you to Conneaut very soon, Your transport will arrive shortly...”

 

Her admonition snapped me out of my lethargic, mental state. It was now long past sunset, and I had become sore, stiff, and decidedly cranky.

 

“Ma’am, I told you before that I need to stay closer to home. Geauga Hospital is my regular destination, when seeking care for friends, relatives or neighbors. I do not want to go anywhere else!”

 

My tone of voice reflected the urgency and irritation that I felt. Before I could continue, the assistant fled in a huff. I attempted to offer a slight apology for being grouchy, but the point had been made. A period of silence and regret followed.

 

During my adventure as a store co-manager for Giant Eagle, employees sometimes observed that I had the ability to morph from Dr. Jekyll to Mr. Hyde, on cue. When needed, I could project that alternate personality to achieve goals that were important to the business.

 

After midnight, with a hush of activity having descended on the ward, I finally received notice that my wish to stay local would be granted.

 

Outside, an ambulance was waiting. The two-man crew arrived as I was battling grogginess and fatigue. Their gurney appeared to be even more restrictive, and less hospitable, than the bed I had been occupying. A reality that I found difficult to accept.

 

For the first time, I was struck by an epiphany of woe. When would I ever go home again?

"Cream Ale Conversation"

 

 

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(8-26)

 

Black boots kick the pavement

Leather soles slide forward as wheels turn and bite

That spectacle causes me to grin at sunset

Ready for an evening ride

The light of day grows pale and thin

While I confess being sidelined for too long a time

With the cares of an aging rebel in effect

Weighing heavily on body and mind

As a younger man I would have lodged a protest

Over sitting silently as the continuum commenced

But now, with my bones aching from fits of fatigue

I’m left to wait it out by a chain-link fence

Humble and hobbled on my spot

Not given to accepting this plot twist

I want to drop my machine into gear

And turn the throttle with my wrist

Jerry Kay and his wife named Beanie

Had their farm on a dirt road outside of town

I used to drink whiskey and eat frog legs, fried

While listening to his travel tales go ‘round

Ruby rode a scrambler put together from junkyard bits

He seemed to think it was a superior steed

Gary remembered Vietnam, and coming home empty

All of those characters were born of a different breed

I never got choosy about what to imbibe as a kid

Red wine, or tequila, any concoction had me taking a pledge

I did my best not to appear naïve and feckless

Among those wild warriors who danced on the edge

Alan with his Volks Van, a loaf of bread on rubber hoops

With a four-speed stick at the hilt

We ran that bus out to the main route

Forty air-cooled horses at full-tilt

Seeing concerts by bands who we idolized

Heroes all, living as we wanted to be

But I never quite got to that level

Stocking shelves at the local P & C

Diamond Dave, with his Datsun wagon creaking along

A taxi driver, from whom we all bummed a lift

He must have been cold-blooded, like a reptilian rover

That role of friendship never caused him to quit

Those benefactors were my reason to experiment

Bette and Sandy, and a dozen more in the aftermath

They steered me away from the rock cliffs of peril

Gave me the impetus to pursue my craft

I had a typewriter, bought for a tenner

And carried that relic around as if it were a prize

Keys jamming, and a cloth ribbon, full of holes

On that platform, I dared to improvise

I could not guess where my adventure would lead

A fledgling fool, who intended to write

I tapped out tomes until my fingers went numb

And my second-hand desk had a garnish of ink white

Mohawk hair and black-leather skin

Zippers and razor blades, hung to offend

Sometimes I got followed by the gendarmes

But I always found a way to make amends

Sleeping under a bridge abutment

The concrete dust causing me to cough

Drunk and disorderly when I had a crew to hang with

Then out of money, and generally pissed off

That was the lifestyle of a wanderer walker

I never had my own transportation of any kind

At the wheel, I was a dangerous apprentice

Too careless and eager to leave my identity behind

That gamble brought a payday that I did not expect

My cards read like an obituary, coined at a bus stop

Though anyone who watched must have known right away

That I was about to fall fatefully from the mountaintop

A low-budget film became my biographer’s tool

A spinning reel of celluloid, in black-and-white, reserved

That saga on the silver screen, depicted my downfall

And a VHS tape kept it well-preserved

If I take that magnetic brick out of the cabinet

Those recollections still part the veil

And I find myself knees-down on the floor

With a lingering taste of good fortune, and Genessee Cream Ale

“Emperor”

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(8-26)

 

 

The emperor is naked

But his appetite must be sated

No one in this camp will admit to being aware

They stand shoulder-to-shoulder, under the stairs

Stuck in the broom closet, like a forgotten Christmas gift

Fearing the rise of a tribal rift

A spat between allies

Who struggle in the darkness, behind closed eyes

Among their membership

They huddle in a hurry when polls take a dip

Down, down goes the magical clown

After the circus has left our town

Red nose robbed with a two-finger pinch

In bygone years, staying strong was a cinch

But now the weight of bad decisions and war

Cause the faithful to wonder what they’ve been fighting for

Tariffs and insults pop like kernels in hot oil

A whistle of warning, a kettle on the boil

Somewhere, adversaries are stunned and gleeful

Over happenstance mistakes that tug and pull

At the horse’s tail

Not enough breadcrumbs left to form a trail

So the riddlers must take care

To track footprints left by those who were unaware

Of this void, waiting to be filled

A messy splash of tea being spilled

While the naked monarch rides high

And his judgment is nigh

An orange tan glistening in the light of day

Bright and boastful while on parade

Standing stiffly in silent repose

They compliment the gleam from new set of clothes

Dutifully starched and pressed

No citizen of the republic could have guessed

How grand that sight must be

When seen through the lens of antiquity

A thousand warriors shed their blood as a sacrament

And that offering left a mark on the pavement

Washed away when thunderstorms raged

And history turned the page

But in the heart of a negligent, narcissistic knave

It seems understandably brave

A leap into the lore of kings and queens

Who lived to be worshipped, by any means

Now, the remnants of that gilded acclaim

Are a gawker’s remorse, standing out in the rain

A conquest, joyfully joined

A ruling reputation, purloined

At the bottom of a chasm, deep and forlorn

This unclothed babe will swing ‘round the saddle horn

Giggling with glee

Jackboots kicking high, from the knee

As soldiers march skillfully, to a cadence of drums

And a retort of black-powder guns

This is the world in which we now reside

An inner sanctum of secrets scrawled in chalk, on the outside

Yet read in a language never voiced aloud

Not a statement of courage to be shared with the crowd

Heads lowered like a banner at half-staff

A snicker and snort when the master rolls past

Regal in his invisible attire

Perched proudly, this jaybird on a wire

If there were even a few, righteous souls intact

Then these cities might be spared from attack

But temptation lingers with the stale stink of must

As the naysayers proclaim, “In him, we trust!”

Our majestic potentate

Depicted on a slab of virgin slate

Exposed but unseen

This glimmer and gleam

Flashes before the spectators who pause

To make a contribution to the holy cause

The irony sticks in my throat

He rides tall in public, with no trousers or a petticoat

Strutting gaily along the avenue

For the approval of rascals and rubes

And praise from the supplicants

Who howl and rant

About an almighty figure, foretold

Handed down in the ink inscriptions of a scroll

His prophecy fulfilled in a wager

Over dice cast from the hand of a stranger

And shells moved in sequence

While we wallow in the essence

Bare-bottomed is the beast

Come ye all, to the feast!

“Lost”

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(8-26)

 

Running out of confidence, with the year at its end

Waiting for the season to change, once again

And knowing that will leave me behind

Truly out of sight, and out of mind

I am often homebound for days and weeks

With little to expect but a lonely streak

It is a curious affair

A result of years spent going nowhere

I am lost

 

I’ve heard it said that pleading for help is wise

But that sort of equation does not suffice

I won’t drop on bended knees

That is abhorrent to me

So instead, I struggle through the storms that arrive

Through the winter adventures of a nostalgic sleigh ride

Though my vantage point is a narrow slot

In between snow drifts on my trailer-park lot

I am lost

 

Some say that it would be better to retreat

Like a vacationer, venturing toward a condominium suite

But that won’t get it

Such a plan does not fit in my budget

I’ll be here throughout every torrent and tempest

Stuck in my shelter, hoping to rest

On a disability groove

No need for my socks and shoes

I am lost

 

Phone service fails when the power is cut

The reception in my commune, roasted like a chestnut

It makes me ponder that the age has expired

And I have survived, due to unplugged wires

A benefit of my talent for going in the wrong direction

Better suited to avoiding affection

In an environment of solitary folk

A tribe of miscreants, who won’t take the yoke

I am lost

 

Acting up, and being marked as such

Out of hope, and verbally out of touch

I will watch the weather forecasts and plan ahead

Despite the fact that at night, in my bed

I toss and turn, over that impending broadside

Shown on a silver screen, tall and wide

My breath is hot, and the window is cold

An undercover agent, on patrol

I am lost

 

Running loose, in the dreary dreamscape

A superhero without their leotard and cape

Counting the squares on my calendar page

Until the accident of an open cage

From Mother Nature at her best

I cling lovingly to her maternal breast

Hobbled and handicapped, a lame mule in its stall

This is my prediction for enduring it all

I am lost

 

A nod and wink, as the candle glows

With a gentle projection of murkiness and shadows

Ghosts peer from behind a door left ajar

And in my groggy state, I wonder who they are

Perhaps an old benefactor, come to call

Or merely a length of twine, hanging on the wall

This familiar ritual will persist through the freeze

As I dine on cold cuts, and processed cheese

I am lost

 

With a cracker as my treat for making these sacrifices

Eliminating indulgences and impure vices

A pat on the shoulder for staying strong in the moment

A suspended sentence for time already spent

This is the walk I pursue, when topography turns white

With a glaze on the glass that obstructs my oversight

Scrolling through options on the flatscreen

Thumbing through pages of a back-issue magazine

I am lost

 

Until that change, when the melting is merciful

And I emerge, like a hermit, looking pitiful

Deeply chuffing the first aroma of awakening

The rise of a rosebud, the spawn of a seedling

I will wait, at the top of my stairs

Oddly out-of-place, with no cause to go anywhere

This is the yield of my temperance and fortitude

To discover I am no better, than when born of the brood

I am lost

 

I’ve never connected with the cares and concerns

Never understood the appeal of legal terms

And that disposition has not improved

The graying of hairs has left me sadly unmoved

But at the point of this fortunate brag

I’ll be grateful to gather my rambling rags

The solar orb shines, safely from a distance

And that example will inspire, my own persistence

Though I am lost

 

Still, so lost