Sunday, November 20, 2005


You remind me daily
of your clay feet,
that you inevitably err on
the wrong side of prudence,
that you're the first
to duck when the west
winds blow hard, rousting
out cowering cave dwellers.
You say you have corners
I will never turn, or
enter, or poke into should
I choose to lie in your
bed, break bread with
you each morning. But,
you have cried in my arms,
made me smile in black nights,
held my hand when ghosts
popped up to say boo & so
I will follow your bread-
crumbs till the bag runs
to empty and still press
on waiting for eulogy or
vow at trail's end.

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