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This Last Time Will Be The First

The old wooden rocking chair

            effortlessly tucks its legs

                        into the dirty hardwood floor

and promptly falls asleep.

 

In one corner of the room

            a brick chimney breathes

                        out an immodest amount

of smoke.

 

The day is simple.

            Life is negotiating                               

                        a narrow passage

in the dark.

 

In my dotage dreams

            and memories will no doubt

                        sew my remaining thoughts together.

I will use an umbrella that,

           

once opened,

            the raindrops splash onto one by one by one,

                        systematic, orderly, discrete.     

But for today I will blow   

           

the furry seeds of a dandelion   

            into the chaotic furls of the wind,

                        thinking of the rocking chair sleeping soundly,

invisible to itself,

 

of the chimney

            gasping and sputtering.  

                        Simple, my body is

a disciple of light.

 

Time and want is my common need.

            The world is perfect

                        and that’s the problem.


You can’t discover

            the lost treasure  

                        if the ship didn’t sink. 

Posted 12/04/17
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