I swallow my sorrow, but cannot
digest it, so I tranquilize it into
girdling fat and agree not to bring up
the subject.
Rheumy-ness in my eyes
is a slug’s slimy trail of bad decisions.
Sometimes drunks don’t wake up.
Sometime weathervanes spin every
direction
and normal is only a concept,
the foggy plastic window in my wallet
where my photo ID used to be.
Prayer
is a song I sing, hoping to find a way
home by following the melody.
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