at one point I thought

I was moderately good enough at

a variety of things. 

I pulled myself back from the hubris of

thinking I was excellent at any of it

but found somethings I could look at and say, 

"I'm no star, but this at least

I am tolerable at."

That foolishness has be drawn out of me.

It gets harder to do them, now, 

with every reminder that claiming mediocrity

was in vain. 

It isn't even really the small pond problem-

I don't know if I was oblivious or just stupid

or just tasteless,

but the lights are shutting off, row by row

approaching the small corner where

even my most intimate deeds

the ones I thought I could always look at and say

"I can not tell the world any of it

but I'm good at this" 

are fading into less than 

an acceptable rhythm.

my body could accept the small joys

at least

once. 

I thought occasionally it could give them

too.

But now not even the fibers of my nerves

communicate success, 

stuck at best in almost,

In "well, you tried!" 

(even mechanical success cannot

spark along to complete the circuit

and it's not terribly useful 

without that small success, is it?