(Alternative title: writing fail or that old poem I am trying to rework but not succeeding)
How ripples spread far
across the surface of a pond
when pebbles drop,
how slowly holes fill up.
We buried the neighborhood stray
for its dubious honor bestowed on our doorstep,
deathbed unoffered – to the sudden sullen moments
of our mother’s humming, we knew she’d lost
her favorite pastime, an anchoring eyesore
to moan her life’s vexations.
The chronicle of life’s woes we crave
an end to, say good riddance to trifling
annoyance and then chin in hand sit
crying at the endings we so wanted.