A whole life spent out of kilter
Every day is out of whack
So when the storm hit
And the lights went kerflooey
I was ill-prepared.
There is no going back.
And if a little dreaming is dangerous,
Is the cure to dream more?
Well, I wish you were here: that’s for sure.
On a sad, december day
When all the words that ever were
Just drain away
Leaving me aghast,
Alone, marooned
On this sad shore
With no way home.
Now, this inner city cul-de-sac
Where I live is littered
With the works of Marcel Proust
And James Aloysius Joyce:
Who both spent their sacred time
À la recherche du temps perdu
But this will never do
For the ghost-dancers of the Sioux
Who soared into eternity
As if every word they ever knew
Rhymed with orange
And metal door locks were no longer required
Even in prisons
Where the sky was a place of  fireflies
And, where, yes, the sky was always 
Where the last lonely eagle
Flew in search of the killer's face,
Where every dog that ever was,
Had its well-remembered summer-scented day
Lying in the shade of a temporary memorial.

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