Six months, from crimson to clover
from clutch to crutch,
from inside job to out of touch.
Looking ahead, running from behind,
presently thinking…time, time, time.
Odds are there will someday by no tomorrow.
Counting on more than one hand,
how things did not turn out as planned.
Constantly under the knife.
What a life.
What a price.
Why put into use…a sour spirit.
When only an empty room feels it.
What use a perfect stride.
With self respect being denied.
Sterilized, stigmatized, undignified.
36 hours, 8 days a weak week.
I did not ask for you.
Yet, you came anyway.
Six long months the sentence…handed down.
By a sanitized minister, dressed in white,
wearing a frown.
There is a sacred time of day
that even a physician’s physician cannot take away.
It is the challenge of a soft sunshine.
It is the north east winds…
inviting and unkind.
It is the beaten path to places we have yet to find.