WORDS THESE DAYS

scatter like sparrows
bolting off the feeder–to return
sometimes or be gone
for good–the name of
the author whose book
you’re dying
to recommend to a friend,
that movie you saw last week–
it was great
but what was it about?
Gone like last Sunday’s article
about climate change…
You live with this flock
of absences
patching up when you can
the old patchwork quilt
with whatever scraps come to hand.
And when le mot juste fails
to appear except in the middle of
the night or at breakfast
two days too late–ah yes, then
at the dentist’s–
your mouth open wide
as the probing steel tiptoes
in and out of your molars–
there it is.

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