If Gracie was an old woman she’d be in a wheelchair by now her four wobbly legs can still catch each other, but two would need a crutch she’d also be in some locked facility for all her wandering, where we use a short fence to corral her nomad if she was human, I’m positive she’d have given up trying to live and just stayed in bed here, she’s got favorite blankets, pillows, preferred sofa spots to gage the world and a king-sized bed to sleep in being nearly blind an

on a Thursday walk my footsteps march like ticking seconds forced because I need exercise, the knee hurts and head spins spins with smeared thoughts of color slapped on a canvas of confusion mom never let me feel she would counter with why? rather than ask what? clouds on Thursdays sometimes wrench me back home and the war to choose sides starts again

cut off with a sneer at a stop sign, I was cut deeply by what folded over me like a cloud on a perfect day those glasses of hope I wear my worship of kindness my poetry of hopeful endings might be the fantasies of a fool as feeling, thinking, animal men isn’t the beast in us the strongest, able to wipe out love and its allies this vampire of need rarely interested in sharing blood but drinking all it can I really need to stop yearning for a joyful earth, and focus on