Sarah Morgan
I Can’t.
I can’t fill out a form in order.
I can’t keep straight in my mind the New Jersey Turnpike and the Garden State Parkway, or Al Pacino and Robert DeNiro.
I can’t think of any song while any other music is playing.
I can’t feel any biological anything ticking.
I can’t stop feeling homesick for someplace I lived for only four months, six years and two months ago today.
I can’t stick to the speed limit.
I can’t get too much sleep. Nor can I always stay awake.
I can’t stop wanting to get away.
I can’t tie a cherry stem in a knot with my tongue.
I can’t always sit still.
I can’t do a backbend anymore. (At present.)
I can’t watch “Extreme Makeover: Home Edition†without crying.
I can’t always stop life from being a little too much for me.
I Can.
I can scuba dive – at least a little bit, in a pool, anyway.
I can run a mile.
I can read French (sort of), decline in Latin, and fingerspell the alphabet in American Sign Language.
I can pack an overnight bag all too well.
I can always get what I want. And what I need. To hell with the Rolling Stones.
I can find something good in just about everything and everyone.
I can find my passport at a moment’s notice.
I can find anything online.
I can convince most people of most things.
I can always be up for a movie.
I can organize better than anybody I’ve ever met.
I can oil paint.
I can make hospital corners.
I can roundhouse kick like nobody’s business.
I can sometimes cry for not much reason.
I can write a lovely letter.
I can happily make lists for ever.
