Privy Thoughts Poem by Glen Martin Fitch

At dawn I crawl and
plop down on the pot
'How long? '
I face another day of dread,
of tedium,
bored,
wishing I were dead,
As if
persistent terror
were my lot.
My quiet desperation
is a rut.
Self-pity is the leash
that keeps me stuck
and in my place,
expecting change
through luck.
I day dream victory and
scratch my butt.
Or
I could rise and
find the truth I knew.
(That's not heroics,
just an attitude,
the one thing I can change
if it's pursued.
And so I ask myself,
'What can I do
to earn my health,
to act the useful way,
to hear and see and feel
this special day? '