My mind was a twitching hamstring
last night, running through moonlight.
My father was alive
again and we were remembering
When he was a dentist before and after
his engineering days, and something
About a chain mail suit of armor, and
the only true thing was his voice.
When you are at work before dawn
you are the only soul on Earth
And there is little comfort
in the voices on the radio that speak
To us like aliens reading the news
from Mars or Andromeda. Voices
Trying to connect, like you, sweetness
and pain, with an aura of mint and strong rum
Speaking to me across the night
from south to north, like a weary spring migrant.