Big wheel spinning round and round
a sketchy truth about the finer things.

Spring grasses echo a brave soldiers dream,
life forms in places our fingers and lips touch.

Memories firmly held….. grown up without symbols
fire burns the cracks….. passing time.

Fela Kuti flies the eagles, lonely as the poet
a few lines scratched….. by night.

Writing is weighing, a greater void left behind
‘Don’t be stingy with the whisky’…said Bukowski

Call it gray and call it tired, but also call it life.
It’s late, and few want to learn to dance.

In the morning, new mercies I see
as humble yellow hands reach out to me.