Copycatting Veace

Fuel
You are so far away now, so small, that today is already long ago,
and our story in other people's hands. A man crossing a channel
is reading the galleys, passing each page to his wife. All night
they sit close, as if on a single bench for warmth.
Oh, little bench, you will burn.

Jill Osier

Because I want to "keep" this poem and not forget I read it and that I loved it and why. All that belongs to the near end of this weird, wild year. Goodbye Cincinnati, for real. Whatever next Ohio holds for me is elsewhere (& let us hope, wise--with apologies to Kristi and with my glass raised, abrim with Italian liqueur, orange as a Sicilian sunrise.)

The head and the tummy are on the mend but I'm still feeling dizzy from whatever small bug found home in me these last few days. A small nap, a pond-penny-wish in dreams and with luck, another walk when I rise.