Best Day
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