my friends’ fathers are
dropping
I mean dying
like flies

here is the sky in stop motion, flickering,
a still shot in monochrome

The sin is existing.

Just starlight and some small scribbling across vinyl.

Even as the sun warms the concrete
the long nights’ sensual cold lingers in my clothes.

Any still figure at mid-late evening, when the long shadows make even crumbs appear arranged like furniture.

Lights on the dashboard spell out
“You still can’t kiss me”

I like to think I’m also sprung,
released from the furnace knocks,
done with the heavy meat stews
and salty soups.

You’ve spent a lifetime training
for this.

Long after midnight, we’re talking about our first time

Winter sat like a wolf
on the horizon.

we drove on through
the blue seal of morning as the turbines
turned and winked out their hearts

I am not a guide
for every traveler
of loss.

Part of being a good sad person
is always painting the shadows
in the right direction and knowing
what sorrow to art with.

I am still waiting for the lion

and apples, mackintosh mostly, but any kind left in The Pub
at the Assisted Living Place