Recovery

I spent years disgruntled

like a weary Ufologist pitching his

tent in the desert and looking through

a telescope for signs and symbols,

like a first-grader attempting to play Liszt

until time broke me like lightning tears

a telephone pole,

now, aged, with regret caressing my face

with her fingers like the first five syllables

of a depressing haiku,

I realise that I have no other choice

but to board the slow train of recovery,

never knowing where it’ll take me

or who I’ll share the journey with.