I walked a widow’s walk

>without rite<

to the addict…

Spent time there among

the odd ends…

(webs veiling my crown)

negotiated

welling

stares

to

hole up

in the basement–

–where rats ran amok.

(and mice cursed)

the end of the line

.

for dumb waiters,

ladders & chutes,

and dirty tatting, too.

His arms.

I noticed them especially

last time I saw him

stopping by for gugs

(big hugs)

–those same gugs I threw away

but could not live without–

he waved those arms expressively overhead

(sweeping air aside)

emphasizing points

that flew from his fingertips

like birds

(freeing him from his fears for me)

and they weren’t especially muscly

or tan

those arms

and certainly not tattooed,

but they were such

fine arms

arms that held me for ever

(and not long enough)

tipped with elegant hands–

–that clasped me to reassuring chest for years

(and let me go too easily)

truly elegant hands

(I shouldn’t have gone)

tipped with long fingers

that could solve any puzzle

(except the puzzle of heartbreak)

and

he told me

(he said)

“I will always love you”

and I told him I didn’t like

the way he put that

–it sounded in the past–

–I didn’t know it was–

I didn’t know I would

never

see him again,

never

be held in the haven of his gaze

never

feel those arms around me.

or admire those elegant hands

such true arms

ought continue

ought be preserved

He

ought be here still

to wave those fine arms

–hands soaring like birds

feathered fingers taking flight–

overhead.

I am a gap girl–

a hand-struck

lucky penny

unfound

despite redolent obversity

–collecting

nicks

&

knocks

&

scuff

&

scratch

&

dents

&

dings

from a coin flipped

tales, you lose!

into a grate

that’s ungrateful, despite

well…

being a grate!

beats 2 outta 3 tho

¢

–in cracks I expand–

like tar

like spackle

like a life-preserver

’cause I am crazy amorphous like that

every now and then

my portraiture

peeks

up

&

out

spent but unused

my pretty patina

just vague recall

that I

am

a LUCKY penny

…

lucky…

¢

every now and then,

my etched silhouette turns,

alloy neck craning

to allow my sightless eyes

to peer from that storm drain…

Gazing at where I might have spent my time

// through a forest of stamping feet //

passing by

unaware.

You spend a life

day by day…

–like coins—

it’s the rate of exchange for experience.

some good,

some bad,

some Jimi Jimi Jimi,

(all backward guitar) and

youth is its currency, and like the young

boy, can you throw that around!

living large and racking up

deferred debt…

on a wing & a promissory note the

bank doesn’t lose like infrastructure

and eventually,

even for the IT generation

—you know,

the one you’re a part of—

youth’s traded in for middle-aged

gold,

some fool’s,

some alloy,

some heart-shaped,

and man, it’s better to watch where you invest

this

calling off all those deferred debt collectors,

and bending over to snatch those

lucky coins miser-like

–back permitting—

but ultimately,

the aged will have its

rabbit-eared

way…

trailing nothing but dust…

and Peppy, it’s better to quit the game

early on,

some bluff,

some bravado,

some borrowed–

while you still have

some sense

–to leave on the table.

I got it from IKEA

(fulfilled by Amazon)

a DIY bridge

–or roll away stairwell–

and wouldn’t you know it, most

of the instructions were missing

–just the diagram,

build-it-by-steps page

(and packing slip)

came with–

(plus Slip-n-Slide bonus gift)

but I gave it a go just the same.

The ole: community college try.

and yeah, the lack of return ship label factored in, too, I suppose,

Still. . .once I rolled up my sleeve

–on the one arm left–

Schroedinger’ed the cat,

and popped every bubble in the wrap,

I was in for pound following penny, anyway

(lucky or not, there it was)

. . .

–plumb out of space in which to turn around or even breathe, and

grey real estate

“moving day” chaotic–

. . .

I pretended I could breathe

–blustering & posturing & puffin’ & huffin’–

connected A to B

. . .

and C to God knows what all else,

and right away I couldn’t fit the Allen wrench

into the main frame,

the sudden

conversion of alphabetized system

to numeric code–confusing,

and

G, I don’t know how that figured,

and then

2 more finite than eternal, as I recall,

and

nothing at all binary,

whereas the subsequent lapse of code altogether

–replaced by Chinese, or Japanese, or

some Asian language made largely of emojis, and “Hello, Kitties”

rendered the ultimate construction beyond

“I have leftover screws” iffy.

. . .

Little wonder, then, I fashioned a fence

–instead of bridge–

burdened by that dang Slip-n-Slide that

couldn’t even double-down as a modern-day moat

–at that point–

and if I couldn’t stow it outside, where could I put the bone-breaker?

not one step at’all

(turned out)

but at least I found a use for the rail

. . .

partitioning grey real estate

into kaleidoscope cubbies

/___/___/___/

in any number of which

–or alphabetized code–

I lost myself

. . .

in a maze.

In reel life,

you are the camera.

The selfies you snap

(24/7)

staged around you-shaped space.

Your memories are

the paintbrush.

Daubing in that dynamic whole,

the rendered images are

Schooled by

Zeitgeist,

fueled by

wishful thinking,

skewed to

perception,

the gallery

you visit time and again

–Impression.

En plein air,

and

dans l’esprit,

the collection

shapeshifts

continually

–brushed anew

by Muses 3

–each recollection

(of a recollection)

a ghost

(of a ghost)

blurring the more

and conversely

in starker relief.

Posting daily to your mind

the pull of them

–seductive.