Posted in The Sunday Driver: Life in the Slow Lane


It has returned,
this vise upon my head,
squeezing me hard,
leaving me breathless.

I am a ghost,
wandering through my routine,
a mirror of every other day,
watching me fade into

The simple is what keeps me here;
a pattern of wood that my eyes can follow,
a dog’s fur beneath my hands,
you and your love cascading down around me.

Slowly I come back to being real.
The pain fades with the warming sun.
I wash the wood glue from my fingers.
I close my eyes in prayer.

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