Sometimes late at night, I sit up and wonder…
scenes of Rose and our houses … Danny’s growing
and all my unrest in the midst of plenty
flow by.
I think, these times, that I can almost grasp
what it was that made my mother an alcoholic.
When I look at my picked and chewed fingers
and my life’s restless turning.
I wonder if there’s something I can do
on these sleepless nights
turning over my memories
and imagining my possible futures
For all my thinking about my life and its purpose
I’m more driven that driver here
And for all my attention to the wind’s subtle nuances
I find myself on the bitter edge of my love’s loss
too many times.
gallagher
8 Oct 81
Vancouver, B.C.
— Copyright 1965-2008 by Dennis Gallagher —
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