Monday, November 17, 2014


            Even when I look inside,
            Or especially when I do,
            There are no clear directions.
            I skitter off fleeing
            Toward locations I
            Suspect aren’t really there.
            Oh I knew it would be chancy
            Back in those days;
            I was quick and clever:
            “Who here has a good
            Sense of direction,” I would
            Ask, and some private
            Not too shy would volunteer.
            Susan was also very good,
            But her liver now
            Won’t keep toxins
            From her blood and she
            Is like me, lacking
            A knowledge of where
            We need to go
            And how to get there.

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