Winter will soon slip into
spring, all dressed in 
green; bouquet nights and
the rebirth of love.
Snakes gliding through
the grass.
But for now, we deal
with ice and snow,
slick roads and cold
hearts.

I was on the bus the
other day.
The driver had a
slippery scowl pasted
on her chubby face.
My mask had inched
down on my nose, and she
yelled, "put your mask
on or you will be off the bus."


I was having a terrible day already.
My asthma was acting up,
I could hardly breathe, and I had
just had to put my beloved
dog to sleep.
I miss her, but she slipped
away peacefully.


I rang the bell to get off at
my stop, as I chewed my
gum in passive anger.
I stood up and walked toward
the front of the bus.
The aisle was slick from
the snow and ice.
As I neared the exit door,
I took the gum out of my
mouth, so that I could throw
it away, but things went
horribly awry. 


I slipped on a wet
spot, and to catch
myself, I firmly planted 
my gum hand on the back
of the driver's head.
She had short hair, but still,
the *** of gum was now 
embedded in her golden 
locks.
I'm sure a haircut is
her near future.


Since then, I intend
to tread softly and cautiously,
and just maybe,
she does too.

Where some unmatchible ideas
are found
tying missed-match pairs
in knots
of complexities, easily
unbelievable.

--Repairs of missed-matched socks
wear well on chill days when
darning's all we find
worth doing,

and nobody knows how any more.

Thread bare heels and toes

don't send the mender's dancing thimble
through loops and whirls
at fantasy ***** with

grand pianos and flutes and strings,

and angels in mismatched socks,
singing of somedays like
these, we imagine.

Still, we can.

Souls clad in well mended mismatches,
skate on grandma's wooden floor,
as we recall the deed,
and the equipment.

Grandkids are coming today,
why else would I wax floors and imagine
polishing them, with socks rescued
from uselessness after the other one
was carried off to sockland

through the dryer.
All dryers in America have portals to sockland.
And no one knows how to ****, but
we can redeem stray socks and and and

rescue the tradition of waxing wooden floors,
shining the souls of the trees with the souls of our feet,

trippin' with hippie granny, who married the wolf,
who uses the same portal to sockland for ****.

Just once, everybody should paste wax a wooden floor,
and polish it in mismatched socks, with
five, six and seven year old princesses, (some missing teeth)
none of whom ever skated on tree hearts before.

Or you can imagine. It meets the need for reminding,
common to us all, as time goes by.

I drive down the slippery road of life
Where constant sliding is my plight
As rain pours onto the road at night
Encouraging my car to take flight
To extinguish my headlights

I can’t see through the rain
Hitting my windshield pane
Becoming my banal bane
Inside my flooded lane
Causing a sedative strain
Until only the vigilant remain

Eventually the tread wears off my tires
In this slippery mire
My situation dire
I want to retire
But can’t find a buyer
Who can help me get drier

I start violently hydroplaning
Forgetting my entire training
When my tires are skating
My white knuckles aching
As every moment is taking
An eternity of shaking

I still think I’m driving
But really I’m sliding
Chaos abiding
Uncontrollably riding
Through God’s designing
While never arriving
To the place I’m pining
Before I started finding
This road to be so winding

riding out the highs of life
with manic ferocity

until

the minutiae of life
drag you down into the depths of despair

a pure loyalty like no other
hidden by a dramatized emotional facade

always there to bring you up,
simultaneously bringing themselves down
it's a slippery *****--
emotional support

Oh, to be Mercutio--
is to be the eye of a hurricane,
winding about a center
--that may not be
as stable as it seems

The rope I'm gripping tightly have
taut fibers twined around each other.
I wove them that way, meticulously.
One string after another, its form gathers,
and I'm proud of my craft.

I've used it to save myself and others,
pulling and tying knots, anchoring.
A tightrope to dance on over and over,
Tugging, stretched, fighting, breaking,
but my rope's getting slippery.

I've used it so much it's hard to hold on.
It's overused and now
everything's
going
wrong.

Only a matter of time before I can cut it
without effort,
just one scissor,
and it's no more.

I'll tie it back together but I can only try so hard.
It's wearing down, going gone.
It withers and soon I'll have none.
Nothing to save me, or them
if I start abusing it again.