Wants (upon a time)

I want this to be a list that will bring smiles to a million faces.

Where to begin.

Anywhere—everything I look at wears a want

like a sticker on a peach.

So I’ll start anywhere

before I board the train of self-admiration

which runs frequently.

My refrigerator, here at hand.

I want an energy efficient refrigerator.

I want a refrigerator that isn’t intrusive and doesn’t run so much.

I wish the seal on the freezer compartment would seal.

I want this refrigerator to be replaced by a small quiet refrigerator

without me lifting a finger, without me picturing this refrigerator

in a dump with a thousand other unsatisfactory refrigerators.

Another thing I don’t want to think about

is what’s inside the refrigerator,

the cottage cheese about to explode.

Consider the body. My personal gift.

Listing the wants could go on for days.

More hair. No jock itch, no toe fungus.

The ear I had Tuesday, before surgery.

I want the wound to heal without getting infected.

I want the swelling to go down.

I want it not to hurt. It doesn’t. I want sympathy.

I don’t want another melanoma.

I want youthful skin.

I hope my disfigured ear won’t repel looks.

I wish I would still get cruised. More hair would help.

If I had a lot, I could grow it to cover my ear.

Fifty years ago I was a hippie with hair down to my shoulders.

Long beautiful hair, shining gleaming streaming flaxen waxen.

Do I want to be that green again? Well, sure.

I wish Richy were in the next room.

I want immersive love.

I want air to fill my lungs.

I want to be so naive as to believe I

can give myself that kind of love.

Where was I?

My refrigerator. It distracted me. I suppose I let it.

I want to master focus,

the ability to pay flawless attention.

Which, if I’m not mistaken, would quell desire.

My entitled mind cherishes its wants

but I wouldn’t want to give it up.

I’m hoping that learning to play the accordion

will help keep it keen. Boy

I wish I had a better ear, a passable sense of rhythm

a smidge of talent. Did I mention focus?

My favorite piece to play is La Martiniana

a canción of 100-proof melancholy.

Cuando yo muero, no lloras sobre mi tumba…

I wish I could play it for you

inoculated against self-consciousness.

I want to go on living.

I want everyone I love to go on living.

So far they haven’t.