Sunday morning lie-in,
she, ny times newspaper reading,
contentedly dress perusing-shopping,
in the bed both, but separated
by the distance of the electronic void

i am raven tapping poe poems on my diminutive IPhone,
twenty four inches distant from her lips

no notice taken of the man so overcome
writing his Sunday morn poems that are
drawn so deep from places
that make him so so so glad
good quality weeping
can be best performed silently

noticing that

- he writes best when writing of others, mostly, you

- he writes when the rented invisibility cloak covers his face
and
the wellspring offers him a choice;
write weep and tear
or
write weep and bawl
or just quit everything

whimsy laughs at his slo 'mo nonsense
his choices
this tough guy supporting a mountain of others,
the inversion of his inverted triangle,
him holding up the world

the worrisome grief that wears him down
best released in tears when writing about
you, go figger

and you notice stupid stuff
like why we use 'and' when it just ain't necesssry
how the core of 'believe' is lie
that ** ** ** rhymes with woe woe woe
and
that 24 inches is quite the distance when you are
** ** ** weeping and she don't notice

and how hard writing

only love poetry can be
even twenty four inches
from your nose

dear quinn,

breathe.

love,
quinn

what i love about poetry

poetry doesn't talk
or converse

it yells, screams
simmers, caresses
electrifies, vivifies
soars, carries, raps
pampers, wraps
dreams, dances
laments, soothes
embraces, catapoults
the truth, the
zoetic gold
of the heart

even if tainted, alloyed,
buried, misshapen,
domesticated,
melted, newly formed

the gold,
if you dare

read it,
if you dare

wear it
unveils the
24 karat
jewelry of the
human heart

24 begins with its cruel rule:
"No sustenance or quenching of thirst
until the sad/happy day passes."

Caring women with initials enter
Poking, prodding, asking the same questions,
While loved ones nervously watch.

Close friends, friends, and strangers
Phone and visit, offering their comforting words.
"We love you."  "We're praying for you."
"Make a pact with God."  "Chin up!"  "Happy Birthday!"

Their messages intermingle with disquieting thoughts
Of hopes and dreams left unfulfilled.
"Why me?"  "What now?"  "I knew it was too good to be true."
As hunger gnaws, and expectation is postponed.

A caring woman with initials enters one last time,
Poking, prodding, asking the same questions,
As the pushers of the bed arrive with their benign smiles.

Unwanted darkness returns,
As uncommon mortals work at their bizarre craft,
Opening the golden bowl,
Exposing its precious contents.

East and West Coast loved ones,
Separated by time and circumstance,
Carry on their prayerful vigil.

As 24 continues,
Surrounded by love,
Sustained by hope.