elegy to a tap-dancer at her core

I worry about overlooking the best of things.

the house is a mixed collection of parts; some

stand alone, while some are in need of accompaniment.

others are left unknown but to me.

1.

the checklist is far from accurate.

I don’t know what to look for.

I’m standing at stuff stacked in columns

as high as my knees.

they're stacked that way for a reason.

It’ll take longer than nightfall to find the answers.

my senses collide on the march.

my eyes aren't what they used to be.

2.

behind me, the time-worn drone

of the veteran broadcaster, dumped to the midnight slot,

reports the "Breaking News" I’ve heard since morning.

upstairs, there’s a photograph to be found.

downstairs, there are others to consider.

kitchen shelves are examined for disposition.

the lines of demarcation are formless and not helpful.

there are drawers to approach, each and all in their time.

everything keeps coming and going.

dear, remarkable sister / 12/17/ '39  /  12/18/ '18