her ring sits on the mantlepiece
worn thin on one side
that dull warm yellow
that gold sometimes takes on

i remember it cutting into my hand
as she held it tightly as we shopped
it was bright and shiny then

she used to wear it on her  longest finger
after dad left us, she left it off for awhile
and then wore it on the other hand

it was tight on her workworn hands then
she took it off again before she went into
this last home, but kept it locked in a security draw

now it sits on the mantlepiece, waiting
for me to find a safe place for it
for it is the little bit of my mother's spirit
that will one day be part of my son's  wedding ring,

like a good poet, I whine and whinny:

the muses are unreliable, get too much paid vacation,
unlimited unpaid, and pretend their cells are out of range,
even when they are in bed with you and you’re near desperate
to cop a feel of inspiration

my problem is a variation on the theme. Everyday I jot down
too many possibilities, a handful of words added to the list of
pound bound childless titles, sad faced orphans, dogs and cats,
squeaking “pick me, pick me,”
our reply a casual
“you on the list” rather than admit they are titled, but bodiless
until cupid smashes a cupcake in my face and the bell rings

there they stand - at a friendless crossroads - direction home,
path unknown, awaiting a poet tour guide to complete them

if this sounds a bit like a bad achy breaky country song,
then you and I, on the same side of where I could be headed

cause at the friendless crossroads, always unsure, left foot first?  that first line, first step, could be a false messiah,
or a free-at-last, a free-at-last emancipation

but there are no sidelines in a forest there no sidelines in a poet’s mind; there are the minefields of mindfulness that can explore explode and explain why it is tempting to believe that every gifted one deserves a break today

but you cannot be broken or break off from the community

“Hillel said: Do not separate yourself from the community; and do not trust in yourself until the day of your death. Do not judge your fellow until you are in his place. Do not say something that cannot be understood but will be understood in the end. Say not: When I have time I will study because you may never have the time”

my friend,
substitute writing poetry for study, for study is for us the analysis of everything, that is, everything we say, see and know the need to communicate

so
those who abide in the life of good words will not suffer an abdication (yours)

do not think
there are friendless crossroads,
there are only crossroads that the eye cannot yet see a fellow sojourner coming toward him,
bearing an oversized load of
the inside insight of responsibility
that demands sharing

that is why we call our meetings at
a crossroads,
a cross