Some maybe most 
refuse to float
or try flying 
preferring to bounce 
about getting kicked 
and blown around 
balloons and beach
balls both being 
round except that 
beach balls belong 
on the ground 
and balloons well
are skyward bound 

I have grown 
fond of this 
a soft blanket 
kind of quiet 
like a dog 
who’s found his 
place in sun
or in front 
of the fire 
let them all 
go scurry about 
me I’m going 
to squirrel dream 

I don’t pretend 
those old days 
are now gone 
present and truth
are all that’s 
left after the 
layers of paint 
and varnish have 
all been removed 
just bare wood 
a knotty pine 
soft and lined

Get it in
get it out 
get it done 
which is why 
I loved early 
so that now
I can remember 
without feeling guilty 
love is housework 

None left
but me
looking around 
where’d they 
all go
the same 
feeling turned 
to trope 
whereas before 
it was 
troublesome this 
notion now 
of being 
the last 
brings with 
it a
certain comfort 
for lonely 
can only 
wail when 
others might 
be able 
to hear