April 12 — Evening’s Gray

Four weeks gone, and I’m still alive
Uncertain, and anxious, all along about
Who and who might not survive.
You, though, laying feet first
(towards me at least) asleep
And perfectly content to stay so.
Me pacing back and forth between
The windowed room and you, attempting
To remember if the order worked.
The locks turn left, the one in back
Turns right; and right beneath that is
The little lock that also turns left.
Specifically because so far you haven’t
Died and, barring two or three heart
Stopping times, neither have I.
The rock rolls right in all I’ve seen
Contemporary, or basque; any
Style which respectfully mimics.
You knew and know, and interact
With everything that’s left, and still
Said yes. The pounding emanating
From my chest. You’ve left a small
Indent or cleft, and lightly touched,
Though hardly does it require a reprise.
You’re letting dough rise now, and I’m
Realizing the tenacity of your patience while you
Acknowledge my overwhelming lack. I’m cooking.
It’s easier to grasp because accidents are not
Quite finite. Much can be fixed, but baking
Leaves no leeway for mistakes. And if everything
It took for you to talk and me to listen were
Fundamental, then I’ve never made one.
“It’s Easter, the sun, and Cecelia…

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For Better or Verse — Poetry Month 2022 et al.

Philip J. Repko, Ian C. Repko, and Philip E. Repko have been fiddling with words for more than a few years. Here we shall periodically contribute.