November 7, 2007


There are priorities
to the rhythms
packing their way onto
my lists.
Suitcases to the moon
baggage for the jungles of lower Malaysia
cases for London and Paris and Rome
are all stuffed into my dreams.

There are priorities
to the daily lines
on those yellow pink and blue copies
we imagine trail our thoughts
through nursing homes
as a friend quiets into the next life.
Orange invoices surface
only when all else fails
and I am forced out of sleep and into action
with my full dreams.

There are priorities as
he has no family, no friends
there’s only us
there, at the nursing home,
each day with our suitcase
filled with lists
longing for
Outer Mongolia
with our Gladstone
when instead we are there changing sheets.

1 comment:

  1. How I do hope that those longings for Outer Mongolia stem from past travels to lower Malaysia, Paris and Rome. Somehow the point you are now in the poem wouldn't seem so sad, knowing that you and your suitcases have many stories to tell.


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