Slow Boil
       

Rocks rising in one place, sinking in another,
I read. Mostly quietly, inoffensively, almost
monotonously. Lots of history is as well, until
it's not of course. What are we to do, who

liked to eat and drink in peace, grass just
growing, flowers blooming? All seems quite
different now. We breathe more heavily, our
whole body working away, hands can't stop

waving, memories cropping up unaccountably.
Remember when we had our worst arguments
at recess, but quickly turned playful as puppies
in the snow, while our lower back goes out now

listening to TV news? Boiling over's not an option,
scrapes and bruises go septic, the doorbell rings,
an ambulance gurneys you off, doubts about
truths fester, the IV nurse smiling that grim way?

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Copyright © 2017 Stuart Friebert All rights reserved
from Decanting
Lost Horse Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission