In the almost musty basement, with the TV playing,
Sharon and I were on the sofa making out.
Urgent kisses, clothes a-jumble, smooth bare skin.
And Walter Cronkite broke in:
"President Kennedy has been shot….”
Shocked, we turned away and watched the world convulse.

We drifted apart,
each to ourselves, changed.

But in the autumn of my life, sometimes at night,
I still think of  
that blustery autumn day in Ioway.

i am that Fly--
the one that Crawled across the sheet--
her last sound and Sight
and i want You to know--
its not my fault, she Would have died-- Anyway

We flies get a bad rap--
we carry Germs- never met one myself--
Across food i tippy-toe-- i only take One bite-
from that little Bite--
she would not -- could not die

But let me set the record Straight--when
she finally went still-- was i Glad--
one less Swatting and shooing-- but
its not my Fault, she would have died-- anyway.

Dreams curl away,
Eyes blink open, toes wiggle.
It's morning, ready or not.

Honest distortions emerging from the distance of time.
Thoughts on poor decisions and worse outcomes.
The thin comfort of fading memories.
Every now and then.

After our loving,
drifting and dreaming;
the dog barks for supper,
and so it goes...life.

Concealing more than revealing,
Forgetting more than remembering,
Talking much, saying little.
The triage of truth.