High at Hyde Park

High Wire Act 100 x 70 cm mixed media on paper

STRUGGLE

You are something I’d like to climb over.

I guess we could call it “will,” the druthers of your mind

--I’d “ruther” do this, I’d “ruther” not do that--

I’d love to set it like an egg timer.

Listen to it tick—peacefully—while I stir something.

Eggs, sausage, a drop of pancake batter on my finger.

The willows are sighing softly, which is

much better than wheezing noisily.

Any omen that enhances the protocols

of the season and I’m in all the way. You have

said that too. In your better days

when talking was an item on our agenda.

The drunks have left off singing, they’re

just tired now. It’s three in the morning,

you say, and I thank you ( a little solemnly) for the update.

How did it get to be so late so early?

We are moving and standing still at the same time.

Fairly certain physics cannot mathematize this sensation.

Science was not designed for such undertakings, e.g.

Sandrine’s hair color cannot be verified.

The pipes are wheezing, and this is no enhancement.

She’s in the kitchen, fumbling with breakfast. For which she too is not designed.