Listen up.
It is hard to speak to this:
outdoors the low rumble
of something, trucks or
an unseen train, perhaps;
perhaps the accumulated
higher pitched rattle of cars;
I don’t know. It doesn’t
come toward me, that much I know.
It’s just a suggestion civilization
is making — that I ought
to get going. That I ought
to be out there, too.

Listen, please listen.
I did not choose this selection.
It was driven by health or maybe
another choice — perhaps
a semi-deliberate slip and slide
toward some edge I never recognized?
Trees, leaves, soil have gone to sleep
until spring; snow from last week
covers black tar, and none were involved
in my choices to stay inside and
to stay gone from this busy world.

Turn away if you must.
Reflection of my past in my darling
memory is all I have to hold.
All I have is bright memories
I love, or used to love. Whenever
I close my eyes I see them
in rumbling vehicles,
amidst shrubs’ barren sticks,
fading slowly off in unmelting snow.
I close my eyes yet again,
hoping for a listener to make sense
of all of this. I hold out my hand —
listen, I beg you.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
onward,
T