I crave attention 
even in this 
late years life
I never do
anything with it 
vanity I think 
or maybe inspiration 
from a mother 
who would sit
for hours in 
front of mirrors 
trying to hide 
her purple bruises 
with cheap makeup 
after either whiskey 
or father disappeared

A cat screams 
a dog howls 
lights fly by
flashing blue red
someone in distress 
counting the seconds 
night is broken 
the silence is
and hope too
in this darkness 
we all wait
for rescue from 
cold city black

Poor thing 
is sick
and I 
mother hen
do attend 
to every
ache pain 
and misery 
with coos
soothing soup
and a 
little laughter 
everyone knows 
even illness 
enjoys company 

The discovery 
of people 
should unfold
a napkin 
placed softly 
in lap
the secrets
of people 
should be 
stumbled upon 
paper notes 
stuffed into 
little cubbyholes 
of some 
ancient desk
the bodies 
of people 
should be 
slowly unearthed 
through intimate 
delicate touch 
button by
challenging button 
and cherished 
like sea
glass and 
smooth stones 
found on 
the seashore 

Once tapped 
it flows
for flow
it must 
until flood
is reduced 
to trickle 
for only 
then can 
what’s sprung
ever be 
considered spring