Certain something’s not the matter!
Still, lethargic, dragging heels,
Don’t dare ask how this one feels!
Me,
I’ve tried—maybe not THAT hard—
to build my tenuous house of cards
with rains and winds, my chief assistants,
confused if this defines what isn’t.
Me,
I’m dangling from bare threads,
turning on nonexistent treads,
hatless here on weathered ground,
mere threadbare glove without a hand.
Not too many can
flip my switch,
fewer care to scratch my itch,
fingers folding upon themselves,
whispered, silent, stifled yells.
Such is the
stuff of inspiration,
sparking from no clear revelation.
Who could imagine their redemption
arriving on THAT fool contraption?
A
black dog slips in through the gate
surveying our space inviolate.
He sniffs shrubs and noses roses
with careless, thoughtful three-legged poses.
The cats, of
course, beyond distressed,
flee to the safety of their nests,
Cowering courageously
until that pup will take her leave.
If life were
smooth and soft and warm,
if trivial things could do no harm,
If we knew for sure no sky would fall
What would we do ‘tween short and tall?
Short, the
obvious underling,
And Tall, outgrown most everything;
Between the start and the tippy top
lies pretty much everything we’ve sought.
And in that
swirl of clear privation
lies the solace, inspiration,
wearing ragged, useless clothes
He comes as capriciously as he goes.
No need to set
the visitor’s table
or change the linen, he is able
to slip in and out without a rustle,
timing clearly short of hustle.
But you can
depend upon his step,
appearing many times, mid-schlep,
stumbling already humbling hobble
bringing some bright and beautiful bobble.
No one will ever
understand
when you try your best to explain the plan.
They’ll insist upon some explanation,
when inspiration refused to leave one.
Take the credit
with the blame,
nothing could ever be the same.
You can depend upon this friend.
No one could ever comprehend.
