wondermussed & happy be
mak the darks' langor cease
as ribbns are weave to color th world
the screen door bangs behind me
as if i had been shot out of the house...
it will take awhile, this new arrangement.
her words follow me like snarling dogs...
she is angry because she is not dead.
her perfect little 98 year old body
mocks her will.
blue-veined hands clenched
she berates her invisible tribe
why can't she die, she wants to know--
how hard could it be?
so it goes. minutes tick by. quiet comes.
she sits there in her elegant bones
muttering as she fingers the crinkling pages
not so much praying the scriptures
as loading in more words
to hurl back at heaven.