Best Day 

 

The crux of it all, head in hands, slouched over 

in a ball. 

Breath came in blasts. 

The shape of a slam wild card winner. 

Before the stage was spot lighted, 

the audience decked out in front, 

my arms and hands full of sign language, sweeping and turning out 

they had no idea of the difficult day to day. 

Still ill on chalky tablets, 

that tasted like bitter dough, 

thicken in the throat. 

Best Days 

happen in between the gears of other times 

makes them more honey drool sweet 

like a lubricate that keeps the whole thing clicking over, 

Bad Days are dry, rasping,  

the crux, head in hands, slouched over 

balled up like a fist 

but not bitter, about the surrounding age 

it would be nearly a year, thumbing through the months, 

before I was well again 

but the experience of performing in that large marquee in an autumn 

is somewhere my heart returned to 

whenever days got sharp needle point sore. 

Instead the taste 

A sweet centre, a confection, smooth, and delectable 

sometimes the things that defy importance 

are the ones we hold onto the most