By Les Wicks.
There’s a twang in the air, a swell.
Doctor says no cancer
as far as she could tell.
News is everywhere, hanging around.
I make coffee, an innate honesty
straight to the ganglion.
What happens when one mingles a tornado with yoghurt?
A child builds a tiny fort with the mother’s pens
then reprogrammes the family computer.
Nothing left grows more attractive
it’s a coughed-up kind of immortality.
Have you said everything yet?
That may be the last question.
Living a truth
will die in a truth.
Don’t know about guilt
but regrets are outweighed by some discerned purpose
looking way back
at it all.
Perhaps I still try.
Glide at the light
mess with its head.
