Itching For a Fight

I'm sick as I've been tonight,
and our voices rise,
the volume climbs
an octave.

Walking through Wynwood in Miami
seemed to bring some levity
some clarity
some red and blistered feet.
But coming home
we set an expectation
for the house sick traveler and his wife.

In a few minutes time we were screaming
like I'd never even left,
until no longer we could scream, rationalize, or lecture.
Maybe one of us has to stop being "right."
Maybe both of us have to stop being "right."
Maybe all of us have to stop being "right."

I realize,
for the first time, sadly,
that I don't have
the answer, the solution,
even the idea
inside of me,
and it's THAT,
that helplessness to fix anything
that fuels all the questions
and feeds the "thing."

Because that's my crutch,
my clutch,
and my weakness.
And it's why I stuck around so long
the last time around.
I want to fix,
I'm no mechanic,
but I'm a fixer,
and when I cannot fix
I want to know why.

So I end up with silly questions
that only I know go back to the same place;
"what could I have done to make things not so?"
Smart money is on "nothing,"
but when have I ever been wise with that?