I know, I’m not very creative. Not only do I need serious inspiration to even make my poor attempts at “poetry,” but I must resort to blatant thievery, stealing material from conversations with The Great Robert Bruce. And it still turns out like this…

Arrest

What do you do
when arrested by

steel cuffs clapped on the wrist bone?

her eyes?

notice of severance?

the sweet, gurgling brook?

her death?

a stranger tapping your shoulder?

the fangs of the beast?

baby’s coo?

your failing heart?

the shotgun crack of strong words,
or some other weapon?

a sidewalk bakery?

wounded hands, feet and side?

Have you learned
a response?

Do you reject
the ache
of unbidden reality?

Do you ignore
the possibility
of life
interjecting?

Or
are the gray days
redeemed
by a
starker
color?