I am a writer
late to the game
I can’t run
just missing the rim
but I can dribble
too lazy to go there
romance has drawbacks
mystery’s the stuff
at the back of my fridge
fiction is
god’s gift to me
the poet du jour keeps a diary
no rhymes just the sense that
blah blah blah Black Sea
my reader, my spine
finds the sweet mystery
I have no grandchild
no rosary
no bible and if
I had a family
it would be tribal and
I would fly in solo descent
but she unearths me
finds the spy’s secret meant
traces the negative
puts on the white glove
and hangs me out to dry
the grandmas were the great
women in her life
she knows that and hangs
me, orphaned, out to dry.

revised 9.27.19 nyc