ChOOsing not to
sing out loud, or sing at all,
is a choice we make, can take,
and may pro-
ceed to nurture; tend; grow
where we can, and water without or
And all that was needed
standing of my own self
and being: that foolish desire to
sire a man who might lead through
a kindness or two; an empathy
felt for another soul out there.
But that isn’t easy; maybe isn’t right.
To take a de-
cision which breaks with the past
is hard work indeed for the kindly.
Or maybe the story was quite
another thing: maybe they’d typed me
as an unkindly man: maybe their
number-crunching crunched h-
orrible numbers: maybe the
truth is I needed to be crushed under-
foot of heavy clay and other
boots of concrete
Maybe it’s just fair I should end
up chOOsing nothing more than a
corner of keyboard and chair.
If respectful I remain, what train of
thought could I follow ever which might
leave me without the reason or rhyme
to wallow a tad self-indulgently in
queer questions and
of curious about-
turns, and seagulls that flap noisily on
waters darker than stern
None, I imagine.
None, I am sure.
Forgettable, our fate.
And it’s not too late to re-
verse the clock of time but it is
too late for
this verse at least.