Gravity

Patient as rust

And

As hungry

Colubrine forces constrict and

Define

These cages

This home

We show it no fealty

This

Bender of light

Space

Time

And its countless children

Idols

From the dawn of our exile

We worship the sons

But it is the

Father

That causes us to

Prostrate

Threads

Pulled free

From the sweater that

He only wore

Twice

A gift from she

Who

Tonight

Sits in frayed silence

Weaving in and out of a

Magazine

The strand of an earlier

Conversation

Taut until it

Snapped

Now dangling from his

Copious fingers

As he laments all this

Unraveling

Bookmobile

I loved to make them

Laugh

This older man

John

And a lady whose name I

Don't remember

From the moment I stepped

Into the big green bus that

Parked once a week

In the lot near

Our house

And squeezed my gangly

Teen-aged frame

Down the narrow aisle

Wisecracking

Pulling a joke book from the

Slanted shelf

And laughing for hours at the

Stupid

Inane

They knew where my young

Literary interests idled

And often brought new volumes

Hand-picked

I almost hated it when

Others

Came aboard and

Stole their attention

But I would help

Since I knew topics and titles

Sometimes better than

They

And after this many years

I'm sure

They're both gone

They've gathered the

Keys

As I've slid my stack from the

Narrow desk

Their faces

Voices

Laughter

I can never return

First Snow

Under a pale

Gray canopy

Dawn lingers into the

Afternoon

And meets an early dusk

The flakes appear

Cautious

Undecided

Filling in the achromatic

Landscape

Leaving in us a

Dusting

Of bittersweet affection

A chill wind animates a

Loose shutter

And it barks against the sill

We're here

We're here

We're here

Bottle Collector Guy

Digs through the

Trash

In front of God and

Everyone

We pretend not to notice as he

Gropes and paws

Bags and

Wrappers

Could he be any less discreet?

He doesn't appear to

Care

His reward is the

Cash

For his salvage

Ours is the useless scraps of

Superiority

That Record

All I ever seem to recall is

How it felt

Colors languish

Music embellished by a memory that

Dances

Like my own Pinocchio

The pops and

clicks

Of needle on vinyl are

Buried

With the imperfections of the

Day

It's Good To Be Mistaken

Wrong

Once in awhile

To remember the taste of

Insipid words

Or how it feels to pry out

An apology

To realize I've tried to

Run

Beyond the chain that keeps me

In my yard

To exercise that

Change muscle

To shift that

Paradigm

It's good to learn a different tune

Just

Maybe

Not

This time