digital photoart: ralph murre
ALL THE
DAYS ARE
by
Ronald Baatz
All
the days are cold and short
like
rows and rows of possum teeth.
The
house is empty, even the
mountain
air refuses to come in,
afraid
of the stillness.
I
can sit at the kitchen table for hours.
Its
white paint may be chipping
but
the large vein running through
the
middle of my forehead is firm.
I
feel it at my fingertips as I
work
on a crossword puzzle
having
no squares.
It’s
good to know
a
pack of hunting dogs
was
once baffled by
the
stream out back.
