Barry McKinnon

diagnosis?  guess work - tho cusp of death, not even a 
passing - a ball of internal history spun out in snow.  we'll get there 
suddenly out

of breath

or not even know, or care -

is it to be here to see a depth, or nothing that
tests the human spirit, or hope -

the sun did shine, objectively and beautiful - so
what is it I describe about myself, minuscule, to be sickly spun off
the earth

hanging to the list of pleasures: children, loves, humour and word.

do you get enough light?  

or did I sense for a moment in Tim Hortons
my own life, weeping at the thot of my mother gone -
me, the boy, not unlike the young boys next to me - 30 years ago me?
each, seemingly in the moment without knowing.  nothing
more than their own presence in
the world - a comradery of hockey players.

eat donuts

Barry McKinnon Index
The East Village Poetry Web