LIVING HERE

Living here is like occupying

a five digit glove with a rickety

staircase spanning the palm.

Of course it takes courage

and some days courage hides in

the pinkey and the only way

to access it is to maneuver

the rickety staircase.

On those days, which are almost

every day, it is a waste to struggle

towards courage. I have to

bask in the contentment of the index.

And that takes some expertise on basking.

First off, I have to cease envy of the

middle. The middle is completely staid

but certain. Even using the word staid gets

me off track, correction, puts me in the ring.

The ring leads astray. The ring doesn’t

really give an accurate picture of security. Single

or married, living here takes guts and guts can

only be had by sticking out the thumb.

The thumb once bought me a ride out of

the Swiss Alps. Without the thumb I would

still be there, wandering around like Julie

Andrews without the glamor of the Von Trapps.

As it was, I stuck it out and it managed to show

up in a poem. Like this one.

Some rare days the glove curls

into a fist and I can’t make sense

of anything. But I can still write.

I can hand off words like

fingernails on a blackboard.