It’s never the end . . .

1967 all over again

I had a tail
was a stubborn

commingler—insisted
on being held.

Now round and round
again my fat head

rests
some soft stuff all around my head

The consolation of poetry
the smell of my head a consolation

instead of talking to myself

Now I talk to Him
Firstborn
Careworn
Drained, literally
A lifetime of worry