“Two Years Retired”

c. 2018 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(11-18)

Retirement.

Over the past 25 months out-of-service, I have written about this subject on many occasions. Sometimes with serious interest, and alternately, with the numb approach of a drunk assessing sobriety over a bottle of bourbon. I have not yet begun to fully comprehend this shift in my life routine. Yet my position has become clear. My place. My spot of earth. My mark on the wall.

Climbing the career ladder meant self-sacrifice. I worried over supporting my family and lost track of less important matters. But divorce and declining health rearranged these practicalities. Without time to prepare, I reached a cliff of sorts. What followed was something akin to Wile E. Coyote dropping ominously toward the canyon floor in old Warner Brothers cartoons.

I literally fell out of time.

But having escaped the employment paradigm offered a sort of liberty not seen before. Suddenly, I could wake in the wee hours, make coffee, and begin to work on projects of a more artistic nature. While cursing my own failed mobility, hobbling through my home with grunts and groans of protest, my inner muse began to whisper with hope.

Out of mortal frailty, a child of wonder was reborn:

Two years retired

Coals in the fire

Hot from yesterday

Red heat gone away

The glow gone black

No going back

Out of my routine

Living on a paper ream

I feel wired

Two years retired

No chance of re-hire

Mule pulled up lame

Quarterback out of the game

Got to warm the bench

No longer a mensch

Spit out suddenly

Is this really me?

My turn is expired

Two years retired

Feet in the mire

Coughing up yesterday

No more rhymes to say

A bowl of grits gone cold

This dog getting old

Bricks under paws

Mud splash and hay straws

I ain’t a liar

Two years retired

Goodbye to my sire

Life circle complete

Marching to the beat

I look in the mirror

It causes a stir

Who is that old fool

Going back to school

No textbook required

Two years retired

A face once admired

Now I am the lonely

Loyal to me only

A party of one

My journey is done

Straight up, like a rocket

Silver in pocket

A taste to acquire

Two years retired

A mule undesired

Hoof-deep in snow

Got nowhere to go

Arthritic and gimpy

Is this really me?

Gray shadows at noon

My journey ends soon

I feel tired

Two years retired

A songster, with lyre

Slinging a cow pie

Here’s mud in your eye!

A thought and a wish

Half-loaves and a fish

My hope for a new day

Out of being cast away

A prickly brier

Two years retired

Back to the fire

Sit low with my beer

A few friends are here

They stare into darkness

While I confess

Sitting on the bench

Like a rusty old pipe wrench

Undesired

Two years retired

Mama didn’t raise no crier

I give up no secrets

No joke in my jest

Five decades of membership

Five decades of horseshit

Still unknown by tribe

A bruised-up word scribe

In denim, attired

Two years retired

Miller High Life, desired

A commoner with royalty

A lock with no key

I sit here overnight

And drink till I write

Then write till I pass out

Of insecurity and doubt

Till I am pyred

Two years retired

Last coal in the fire

The sky above is brighter

I’ve pulled an all nighter

Sat up till the dawn

With mad thoughts going on

Tapping hard on my keys

Until this story is out of me

Taking a flier

Often, these inspired bursts of energy would arrive in the midst of darkness. And vanish as the light of morning was at hand. I quickly learned not to battle this new reality. Instead, these visions brought hope. After a jolt of caffeine, I would sit with my iPhone, or at the computer.

And write, write, write!

Each episode made me remember admonitions given from Grandma McCray, from Dad and From Aunt Juanita, now gathered together and waiting, in eternity. “Keep that pen moving!”

As I did so long ago, on notebook paper or discarded envelopes or blank sections of grocery bags, my subconscious mind began to sling out prose proclamations and poetry. Profundity and nonsense. Trippy texts and missed success. Pages of ideas, unfinished and half-baked. A mix-tape full of alternate takes. Daydreams, dips, doodles, diddles, and dung. Like a Christmas ornament, waiting to be hung. Or a bridle over a rail at the stable. Ready to ride, when I am able. Sunrise seemed to still such visions. But I began to trust in their return, with the next sunset.

At last, I was retired, and ready.

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