What Gives
 
the tables turn
and i walk tiptoe
back across charcoal bridges.

miss clavel might call
idealism a sad
and beautiful obsession,

warned me friends might turn
a colder shoulder, laughed at my sardonic
homage to the greats of writing and high hopes.

i had dreams by the bakers dozen
dust storms, red and black currents in a fallow field,
feral cat and a full stomach, strings attached, sleep.

i was never really good at that
false sense of full security final chance,
old hat, taking it on face value

winter pulls a wooden plow and takes away
the growing season. takes away the light and garden
of eden monkey wrench snake shoe fits.

sleeping dogs lie wide eyed
while pick-pocket string bean climbers
still haven’t learned to let slumber canines be.