An affinity for her prose
enjoying his sentences
whimsy in her tone
mischief in his humor
the sensual sound of reason
While my life allows none.
(My friends are bloggers who know a small safe part of me)
Sometimes, I think I’ve connected
then I feel the distance
the darkness crowds me
like driving on a county route
during a downpour.
(Insulated from direct exposure, you cannot catch my disease)
The anxiety climbs and
my grip on the wheel tightens
as if a few degrees in one direction
or the other would cause me
to plunge into the river.
(That little thought on every bridge,
every day, corrodes my soul
My soul is a steel vessel
sitting in salt water
I never had time to grease it
before I fell in the brine.)
Where are the edge lines
is there a curve in the road
A city girl lost in rural country.
(I’m always included while I feel excluded.
A woman among men
A sculptor among painters
An older woman among younger
A human in nature who is an unnaturally worldly.)
On my road, most of the locals own
diesel American trucks, that rumble by.
I can set my watch by the thunderous
one like the freight train who
squeals it’s wheels each noon and night.
Lawn gone replaced by woods and flowers
My “artistic sensibility” is not welcome.
The cold blank stare I get makes me wonder
how long until I become a know entity.