My Wavering Triumph
(with thanks to Grace E. Kelley and D'Shan Berry, during whose METABOLIZE workshop the first draft was written!)
Breathing at fifty-six, yes, next right thing. Heart flutters, fibrillates and sinks, is weighted down, bruised with worry. Things done, undone. I get up at two because my body has forgotten how to sleep. I drink water. Coffee. Poems. Breathe and pace, breathe and pace. Talk to myself and to whatever angel might be eavesdropping. Coax myself deskward. Friend in Orlando doesn't object when I write to him at oh-dark-thirty to unburden, or to frolic in word-gardens, scamper among a pan-angelicum of phonemes, a choir sublime of sweet voices and sounds.



Unable to sleep,
able to worry, walk, write?
Poet heads “deskward.”