Another day with no poetry in my exhale,
and if I knew what was good for me,
I’d have gone out and found some,
I’d have gone home and taken deep inhales
of cardamon and kitchen and bake.

Another day with no poetry in my inhale,
and if I knew what was good for me,
I’d have taken a moment to breathe out,
I’d have taken a moment to go out,
and kiss the sky, and pet a fern.

I am thirty seven years old,
and have outlived another friend.
Today I have no poetry, only ache.

I never seem to learn.

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Comments closed because condolences will make me vanish and I really really want to finish this month of poetry, but I promise you I feel your kindness and hear your prayers.