These are the endless days of endlessness
These are the days, when time is just present
There is a disbelieved past, a future unimaginable
Here is the only now, a permanent-present-tensing-participle

Faces smiling semi-graciously present, desperately seeking coaxing
The winter dark, living room occasional lit by one, mostly TV glow
Radiance lives inside only, but well remembered songs cause
Cry outs for who, the what, the needed, we’ve forcibly memorized

Observing winter’s river from kitchen window, it’s colored
*****-dusk-blue, like my eyes, add overlaying images of sparkles
But my magic not powerful, my love can’t see them
My bag-o-tricks can’t bring her sunshine, 2020 sorcerer’s gold

These are the days of endless dancing alone,
Longest walk from bed to kitchen, worn the weary wood shiny
True romancing still abounds, but so well hid, 99% invisible
Even when you ask without asking to be held oh-so-tight

These are the days, riverside, when slow flowing waters offer
No hinting of faraway treasures to be someday discovered
The magician vain struggles to find loving tricks to unlock
Her loving grace, her water-to-wine breathing demeanor*

These are the days, that forever need remembering, saving
No savoring, the absence of joyous everyone, everywhere
These are the days of absence+abstinence that lasted forever
You've got to hold them in your forever heart, lest we forget

at my stop,
but very few getting on,
even fewer getting off, all
on account nobody feels
like going anyplace anyway

I don’t mind,
like stretching out,
and the big picture
sized windows mine,
now all to myself, got
fantastic view of
empty streets

the bus drivers don’t
kick me off at the last
stop anymore, happy
for the company, even
though the drivers are
the sorriest sad sacks,
crying quietly under
the masks that don’t
hide all that much

put down the pen,

gown thyself in coats
of many riotous colors,
banish ‘never’ and ‘hope’
from thy lexicon, and
begin with a smile
always a smile as you
walk the streets as if to say
open open says me,
open sesame and let the
good works begin,
for having found your
captain of the muses,
your Calliope,
your rosebud,
lucky you!
you will need not write

another word

The creak of a spine
And scent of a musty page
Intoxicates me