The Poem in My
The poem in my knee can predict rain coming, but not whether it’s a storm or steady drizzle. The poem in my ear hears that train in the distance long before it’s near Linden Road. On a warm spring day, like today, the poem in my eyes can tell the future. It’s not always right, but it has its moments. When I’m torn, conflicted, unable to decide, the poem in my heart tries to speak. Its voice is wet and garbled. Sometimes, I forget it’s there and go about my business, a simple guy hoping for more luck than anyone deserves. And the poem in my skull is the loudest....
Read MoreMy Second Half-Century
The slop of another new year lies down in the yard, pale and hungover. Wet in the arms of the last snow, the new year squats in soft, muddy grass, taking the place of our three snowmen who melted, fell, and exist only as a handful of white torso in the rain. I enter my second half-century the same way. As parts of me vanish without warning, the days feel loaded, hours ticking me off. It’s January and the radio predicts thunderstorms later tonight. Maybe the new year will stand up to the lightning and pouring rain, shake itself...
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