Whose Site

You had good bones
Such good bones, boy

It’s that thought that found me
When you found me, boy

So I let you stay a while, sit a spell
Set a spell on me, boy

Marksman, Sharpshooter, Expert
Shoot, boy

You took aim
You took me, boy

Set your sights
But whose site is this anyway, boy

That needy, narcissistic arrow
Was not the way I needed you, boy

Talent

What say we keep walking
In tranquility
You and me

See what we see
A new day today
A better way

Exhale a time or two
In hope the adrenaline
Flows

Lay bets that being a true friend
Will in the end
Find us fine and dandy

And New and Final
Darlin’
Can we?

At The Bell

Fling that thing to the Moon
That thing that’s ailing you
Red flags, white flags, too

It’s not a day too soon
Let’s leave crazy to loons
Whose flightiness consumes

Consider this day new
Its call goes out to you
To sing the champion’s tune

We Begin

An hour, now, clutching the cold morning coffee, an acrid-filled, comfortless cup.

Still dark.

Consumed, we, with what’s bearing down at the door — bellowing “more, more, and more!”

Its roar.

Will this new blanket be warm enough, this day sustain hope beyond the front-porch light?

Windows fogged.

Still, dawn’s bright, there, without, meets a heat — long-stored and stoked — here, within.

We Begin.