An un-working brain, a faulty mind;
clumsy hands to grip with,
broken eyes to see with;
no innards to work with
beyond what was given at birth —

no extrasensory perception;
nothing to see in future
or far away, anyway — just
this:

one poem, one snippet
of notice and care; maybe
just of notice? Maybe caring
is too much to ask of me;
it’s possible I cared too much
in the past and now I am being
laughed at.

Maybe I should laugh
at myself too. There are bushes
in the rain outside that will be there
after I’m gone, after all.
Pay your attention there;
it will come back to you.

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

Let’s hear one for the carpenter’s wife
who stands behind the door and watches
while her husband haggles and bargains
then saws and nails and settles the bill
while his wife turns away with a smile and nod

and then let’s have a drink for the mason’s wife
who stands by the doorjamb with half her face hidden
while her husband juggles stones and spreads mortar
and sorts tiles and worries the bills until midnight
while his wife turns back and disappears into shadow

Let’s have one more drink then for a doctor’s wife
who stands behind the door, far behind the door
while her husband keeps counsel with other doctors of note
and sweats and ponders the diagnosis and surrenders
while his wife turns back and leaves through a back door

When there are no more drinks left in that bottle
the husbands and the wives become dry and broken
They grope and they weave toward some stale apocalypse
as they sit in their dark with all they have learned
and then turn back as if nothing has happened

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

What made you take this road
home?

Why did you leave
for home
so late?

Did you want to see
that rosy moon come up as you pulled in
to the driveway?

Did you mean to hum
that song
as you stumbled along,

stopping at the bottom of the stairs
to gather up this day’s last strength
and climb them, with the last light
of a routinely sad day around you?

Were you actively glad
to slide into bed
at the end of it all,

having done
the chores for the morning’s rituals
and saying then to yourself that you
wish you had known that song’s title
or even a few of the longer lines of verse
before drifting into this darkness?

Did you awaken
first thing,
at first light,

snippets of a different song inside you,
beginning once again by rote
rituals, once vibrant,
that have grown stale?

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