Dead Reckoning

I slept long. The Old Dog did, too. I slept so long I overslept and before I knew it I had to be up and out the door accomplishing missions before I had time to perform poetry practice. And it feels very, very weird. The entire rhythm of the day is off. I had brain fog. I needed coffee in the morning instead of the afternoon. The husband and I bickered inconsequentially in the way that those who have been long associated can do without actually falling out with one another. The day was completely inside out. It was raining hard, then not at all, and I got sweaty inside my rain mac. Once home there was a phone message and having replied to that and finally settled myself I thought, “Oh hell, NOW what will I write?”

So I centred myself by lighting some incense and a candle, then flicked through my notebook and found one of those non sequitors, a note querying the etymology of the word reckon. Which, upon some research, proved illuminating.

So I had my prompt and dived right in…

Dead Reckoning

To reckon
is virtually ritual by rote
the line of neat ticks
on a bill of laiding
or delivery note
against items
(all in order)
indesputibly received-
opinion proof.

I reckon
it's hardly
abstract maths,
more the orderliness
of accountancy.
You get (most of the time)
what you expect,
not a confession
of an article of faith...

Until we reckon
otherwise, needing to figure
where is here.
Where are we now?
Then it becomes clear.
of our last known location plus
time, wind and speed
of light.

Copyright © 2019 Bee Smith. All rights reserved.

Featured Photo by Sergei Akulich on Unsplash

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