I used to write poetry
Now I barely read it
Late at night
Longing for a blank page
To fill of its own volition

As if some wishful magic
Could call who
I once was
Home to myself

All the hard years
Bleed together
The steel city
To Philly and
Then home again.

Heartbreak and getting gone
Too soon or too late
Depending on the day
Making way to them good times
Come back round again

Cancer scare
Holding my best friend
As she took her last breath
All the ache bled
Into an ink dry riverbed
Of empty nights
Flowing one to the next

Put my head down
Counted the days
While I bled and ached
Raised my eyes again
Just in time for the next war

This is not
My first experience
With irony
Or even my worst
Just the latest.

A self-involved view
Of the next world war
If there ever was one,
For sure.

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