I am made of syllables and sounds,
Of word and tone and clarity of voice,
Caught by curious rhythms I set down.
Given what I hear, I have no choice.
“Feeling Okay?” His Caretaker Asked In The Access-A-Ride Car
Nothing this disabled man would eat,
What the broken mind beside me has.
At least it doesn’t stink, the bag
He dips into, retrieving gulping chunks.
When he asks his care-companion’s name,
I hear the fracture in his voice.
I write and he eats lunch—
Between we damaged, who is better off?
Improving the texture of the day
Takes more than simply getting stoned:
Circus colors’ ambience and sounds,
Shiny and the glitter in array,
Clowning props to set the tone,
Then listen as the laughing things rebound.