touch my hand, here, flat on the table,
skin thin and wrinkled, but responsive.
Remind me why, and retell the story,
once, or even twice would be nice.
Follow me down the hallway,
and watch me
counting cracks on faces in mirrors
on walls in bathrooms at the far
end of the house,
in the guest bedroom, away from openings.
I’ve been back here,
wrestling ghosts I don’t believe in,
for a trophy out of reach, in a circle
in a square,
comprising the nightmares
and calculus of another’s making.
Tell me something different,
something meaningful and clever,
to win an argument
or calm a disjointed mind. It needs you.
Mid-Aged Poetry 