The Gravity of Impulse

When some new thing opens my eyes
I’m a sapling planted in rich, warm
black soil — a granite pebble dropped
into a pond thirty feet deep,
falling faster and faster (I
know — gravity doesn’t work that way),
except suddenly, I need to own
every book or piece of equipment
for my new hobby — beginner to
advanced — stone sculpting, watercolor
painting, no-till gardening, until
leaving my study means weaving
my way through skyscrapers made of
unread books.

I’m not good at just dipping my toe
in the water, I’m a whole leg or even
a torso, kinda guy, and I know this
isn’t really “healthy” — a word I
frequently ask myself these days,
“is this food healthy”, “is this cocktail
healthy”, and you might think, at fifty-five
I’ve learned impulse control and not bought
books one through eight of the latest scifi
series, but gravity doesn’t work
that way, and I do love the slightly
acrid smell of new ink on paper,
at least for the six months it takes me
to accept I’ll never read these books,
and my hands do tremble just slightly
when I realize that no one can save
you from yourself, because gravity is
a constant, regardless of height or mass.

Gary D. Grossman
MacQueen’s Quinterly #18, 2023