loneliness

by

those above the law…

you’re vinegar drops
on the crucifix of time
our blood warmed your feet
but shed blood turns to lava
and so our fate will be yours

 

by

on the eve of christmas…

holidays
hard days
cold winds
frost the windows
and
chill
even
the youngest bones
there’ll be no
manger
wise men
or
gifts
but
the lights
wink
at
the children
through
the iced portals
of
this home
of
theirs
parked
on
broad street

 

by

long after the meaning’s gone…

each morning
the trolley
could be heard
outside his door
a door
always
unlocked
so
aides
could deliver
his meds
without
him
having to transfer
from
sofa
to
wheelchair
once
prescribed tablets
were taken
he’d shuffle
his wheelchair
to the bathroom
legs pulling
more than
the arms weakened from his fall
the sidewalk fall
that
brought him to this place
for
his own good
a three room
efficiency apartment like place
where
his medical needs
could be
monitored
his computer
a writer’s umbilical cord
to
the outside world
was damaged
in
transit
and
was more
temperamental
than
the musicians
he once wrote about
the computer
finally seemed
to suffer
from
depression
not wanting to
work at all
as if
this aged environment
had brought
about
a complete digital climate change
before long
even the writer
sympathetically joined
the computer’s mood
a free thinker
who now
accepted opinions
expressed by others
as to
his identity
and so soon
he had none
but
for awhile
life went on