Interlacing hands,

10 fingers–imagining

–5 of them are yours.

it’s funny–

I get more

“real”

virtually,

then I ever

meant

actually,

and then

the ethereal

–is

genuinely

mad.

I am an antique girl

crying 20 year-old tears

as new as they are old

. . .

Heart breaking all over again

to think I would miss you

–twice.

©Karen Robiscoe

Conversation is a knack,

the art of giving forth and back

–a method linking me and you

expressing thoughts—point of view…

but now and then you’ll drift away,

unaware of what I say,

at this juncture never fear–

there’s a way to mimic hear. . .

Check my gaze, and nod your head,

create impression what I’ve said,

is deep, and something that you ponder. . .

when in fact your thoughts have wandered.

Furthermore arrange your face,

in gauging manner, looking sage,

“Isn’t that the way it goes?”

is safe to say—is always close.

Otherwise, make sure to add

the words “I hear ya”—don’t bite back

–the urge to laugh, if it seems timely,

according to my tone, and finally,

When you’ve used up all of these,

check me out, from head to knees,

Interrupt, don’t interject

“have you lost weight?” is totes correct.

Once upon a rhyme,

I fell for a scroll

–not the dead Sea kind–

who

tip-tapped

tip-tapped

her way

into my heart

—which grew like a Grinch

around Christmas—

until 3

diss’s

—times a thousand–

altered placement

a change no

pumpkin-turned-coach

could correct

only the scroll herself

could re’right outcome

–a shift she attempted

by furling

—a rookie mistake—

by pointing

—so rued—

and good ole’ misdirection

—she got lost; a problem on accounta’ a low-carb diet—

until one day, that scroll

added pages–

pages & pages of brand new

storyline

she’d resisted

—at least thrice—

since scroll had always worked autonomously in

antiquated tower, lacking even the most fundamental cell reception

a storyline

–as old as it was new—

including bit players,

and background,

subtext

and sojourn,

beginning in the middle

and branching out

–side to side—

scroll became a book

without artifice

—but plenty of made-believe—

which cover intrigued

and hid nothing all

at once

. . .

upon

a

rhyme.

I walked

to & fro

—in cove—

looking forward

to where

I’d been