Saturday, December 6, 2014



What next it might be asked
If projects filled my mind,
But I put one metaphorical foot   
Before the next and felt my way,
Easing the kinks and cramps.
Susan’s hands spasmodically grip
My arms.  I kneaded them,

Wringing them loose,
Filling her tub with water hot
Enough to ease her through
Another evening.  I steal away
But keep my cell phone near
In case she needs some later help
Which is to say this isn’t

Of my construction.  Off to the side
I remember what I wanted,
All the tools, the usages,
Whims and Middle English cant;
So much back then was rant,
More force than inspiration.
I now render dreams of ardent

Rushing down streets
Filled with people I never know
Frantically searching for a dog
Separated as we slept,
Dead until I dreamed
Her back to life or nearly so,
Searching until I wake.

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