reading my Rome book...the one i wrote for ten years, and never published. I'll see how much concentration I have left to work on it. Today is a cold, but soft winter day.

at last, January has turned cold

no snow yet, not like it should be.

 not as i remember those times when

 we used our sleds everyday, school was out

just about.  on the hill right in town, speeding down; 

through the woods to get there. 

we followed the snow falls bidding

 ... made tracks so others could find the paths,

for crossing walking ways ... in blanketed white

pounded down with footprints,

morning through night

... in January, crispy

washington terror

  saw the disturbance on TV;

as close as i wanted to be.

agony to see how real trump is,

that people willingly follow him,

emulate his example.

 

at home, away from crowds

and covid19 

all is fine for me,

are we in a book or a movie?

life goes backward,

the clock of it,

and you don't know it.

when your sleeping

hours tick off backward ...

not always, but oh, yes they do,

while you're not looking.

how can it do that?

 

Do I have to soak my poems in secret lotion and leave them tucked up somewhere on the floor of the car? I don't think so.

 

so basically

when you're out and about

i want you on the same page,

no game changers, okay ?

to tell the truth

here's the takaway

keep your eye on the ball

got that? get that.

notes on what i'll write

it starts this way ...

i hear the poem idea in my head; not quite.

sometime during the night 

it goes tick, tick, tick

i'll look over quick

then forget what i said.

consequently, what i'd write.

 

good morning, Wonderful.

could you hand me that pen

no telling when ...

by scratching out this idea

i will truly begin.