Counting Days – A Poem


Counting Days

Gravity is holding clandestine
My shed is my shelter.
The shelves are lined with books
and the workbench
by the sketches of a woman I met in March.

Let’s hold out together.
Storms have a way of passing unnoticed
I don’t have any power
in the shelter shed,
but in the fridge there is some wine.

Rocky ledges are not the most
appropriate place
to build a laboratory.
I think Frankenstein would agree.
Or his daughter
who was always the bright one.

I am working on a coffee table
and carving in reliefs
of The Last Supper.
God would probably not
think it is
an accurate portrayal,
but he was there,
And I
can only guess.

In the second story of my house
I proposed
to my editor
that it should be an original account
of an architect who
slept through New Year’s Eve
and woke to find
he was an art thief.
Don’t you think it
a wonderful premise?
But the publishing house
wanted a sequel
to Counting Days.

Grasshoppers make bad neighbors.
Running through life is better than sugar.

Behave in appropriate fashion
and still
an off the cuff remark
will sting like hell.

And so
it all drags us down and brings us
back to gravity.
It is only fitting that it should,
here in the shed
with the power drill,
the pencils,
and the empty bike rack
as solemn witnesses to our eternal
black hole love.
The rest has been left
to those grey
of green fields who
window shop in the summer
and feel the snow


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