I don’t live the way my poems are laid out off paper I struggle like everyone to keep my head above the mud, fall, crawl and cry out when things don’t go my way I extract myself when I lift a prized poem which I ‘ll clean before adding a show ready polish I refine my art before it’s staged my life hides the scars you’ll rarely see

in the early years when I would approach, she’d spring like a rabbit and scrabble away every leg, frantic on the the wood floor, slipping to gain footing like a hotrod burning rubber before peeling away her little game of catch me if you can now wobbly, deaf and blind, her eyes gaze at something that’s not me or this world, a dark silent universe she is careful to traverse with a little heart needing a lift off the bed a gentle push towards food and a long kiss I ma

first steps first bicycle first day of school first graduation first time leaving home first car, apartment, job first time falling in love first shattered heart uncountable all the firsts that became forks in the road, fresh paths to another first but in my well-worn age, less desire for new and novel, preferring the comfort in routine and being quite aware the first step of each day moves us closer to the last