There is assorted indifference to what maybe inevitable.
It has always been this way…since the broken buildings have come into view.
With tainted lung plunged deep in my throat.
Without a heart upon my sleeve,
if so, a lie for all to believe.
I am the absconded wind on winter leaf.
An adult child, too old, born too late, for a deficit disorder.
A crumpled political banner, looking for a yard.
Like a New Hampshire storm, I fall for love of disposable beings…
And, the arrest is inevitably, hard.
There is comfort in another year’s comfort.
Covered bridges and mountain spring faucets.
Or, of a lone worn chair in the forest.
Places where ravaged thoughts can take a rest.