NOT QUITE A COMFORT
Now and then I think back on things endemic :
the whale in the water, the shed on land. What
doubts and reservations entertain me? Here, in
this afternoon waltz, I walk along some shaded
street, bare trees, or what's left, and the dark heights
of the buildings' shadows around me. Even if there
were, there's no time to compromise now. My bookend
is a fortunate thing, while the Uber cab waits.
Once long before this, my father drove a car for
others : mad, mad world, he wheeled and turned.
No, as if to compensate the deficit, I insist on
walking, everywhere. Not quite a comfort,
but a comfort nonetheless.