I went to the bridge
before turning in
and found you not there
tipping  a lovely
night
into
lonely
but
it's
too
soon
for
despair.

Another twenty-four hours have passed
which you and I will never reclaim
so much of one's life
is spent oblivious
to the grains
of time
swish
grit
by
g
r
i
t
thru
the hour glass.

a poem is not a ***
made of potter's clay
shaped by spinning
against an artist's clever hand,
nor as useful as a fired cup or plate,
but if a poem should fall to ground
it will not break,
should it find a broken heart
it may collect the chards
and remake a loving vase.

Few are loved for who they are,
but for how, and whom they serve.
Is your beauty, brains, or bravery
your servant that does your bidding
so lovers flock and posture at your feeder?
Unless the ill, the homely, the mental cases
have a built store of once given gifts
they find few friends and fewer still
the comfort of a lover.

There are words on the range,
and out to pasture,
in the lowlands,
and on the hilltops.
Ole Buckaroo,
what's a poet to do,
if not to ride out,
lasso, brand, and corral a few.

In the family
there was no name for it,
the sudden outbursts,
the spasmodic tics,
the "jesus chris"
that flew like bank swollows
from his lips.
Between the frequent episodes
my uncle seemed
completely about his wits.
It would take me twenty years
before I could match
a name for it,
"Tourette"

I should not be writing.
I have nothing much to say.
I told my fingers
to do whatever talking
that will be coming from my frame,
but it's clear to me
that my digits are
as doltish  as my brain.