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"Poetry is the evidence of life. If your life is burning well, poetry is just the ash." Leonard Cohen

Tuesday, November 11, 2014


She can't help wondering about them
Her grandsons; they are so young
So young in fact, she's afraid they
won't remember her
If much more of their lives escape
without her in them

She is bewildered to find herself in
such a predicament
Never in her wildest imaginings could
she have foreseen this scenario
That she would be a grandmother
living in the same city
as her grandchildren - three lovely
boys, all under age five
And be denied access to them

To think the words, never mind
write them down
Makes her feel so outside
the scope of anything she thinks
of as normal
She ponders her state of mind
Perhaps she has gone crazy and
just didn't notice her brain
falling out of her head

No, no - that's not it, unfortunately
If anyone's non compos mentis, it's
her daughter, the boys' mother
Maybe her brain's been siphoned
out during the night...
For nothing else comes close to
explaining to where her beautiful
bright girl has disappeared

As a last resort, she considers going
to a therapist...or a fortune teller
Decides on the latter...either way
it's going to be a crap-shoot,
she knows
Somehow, the latter seems a little
more timely...she's got her fingers
crossed...hopes her heart's up to
the possibility of more risk.

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