Her Laughter

Thirty-three hundred patty-cakes
bounce my sleep.

The murmurs of an absent child
creak the staircase until dawn.

The iron nails securing my spine
flake a glittering rust.

It is hard to repair the pump
that primes my eyes for tears,

while the ghost in my attic
constricts my throat with her laughter.

copyright © 2020 Kenneth P. Gurney


Somewhere there are traffic signals
and instructions
on reconstruction
of civilized laughter.

All roads lead to tap dancing.

Crazy Glue back together
all the promises
you broke
and celebrated with champagne.

All roads lead to a fever.

Eventually a virus finds us.
No matter how well we hide.
No matter our tax bracket.
No matter our haircut.

All roads lead to barking dogs.

Somewhere there are traffic signals.
Yellow still means go very fast.
Thimbles hang from the crossbars
to catch the sleepwalking rain.

copyright © 2020 Kenneth P. Gurney