I have been out of pocket for a while; the writing Muse has been hibernating, I’ve had the flu twice and a few other assorted winter maladies. I am brainsore, even as the end of Lent approaches, and Alleluia is dusted off from its forty days in retirement. Spring emerges early here, hectic and wet, and a geriatric cat came to live with the familiar and I following the passing of her person. Somehow I keep breathing, and talking to ghosts, staring into the centers of flowers and exorcising demons by exercising my wrists with paintbrushes. My steam-powered heart keeps thumping, and the bellows of my lungs heave with regularity. I assume this means I am still alive, whatever the reports have been to the contrary.
Last night there was a strange dog
in the neighborhood,
and frightened by the midnight train,
he bayed relentlessly against the thud and boom,
then fell silent at the sound
of the emergency god’s paternal voice
proclaiming all was well.
I wondered at his smothered frenzy,
at how easily quiescent the most feral falls
listening to father.
In the daylight those that huddled down
pretended nothing happened;
a crow displayed glistening wings to the sun
high in a budding treetop,
and dropped a broken strand of plastic beads
onto the muddy sidewalk.