-what is it you want, poem-writer?-

early morning music leads to

sightings of intermittent bombings and shootings.

over there, the ergonomic chair
sits at the table without concern
over the recent goings-on and all-the-while
I grow old along the way.

my son won’t be old until he occupies
my space within his own frame of time, but

it's only the very old who dare not scrutinize
beyond their immediate circumstance.

as for me in the meantime, the walk
to somewhere is accomplished with minimal effort.

but only by taking my place at the table
will the distance to reconciliation be travelled,

to a crowded, often unhinged existence 

waiting for its daily resurrection, where
the done-for will be done-in all over again.