Turnstile

From Kansas the winter starts

along a charade of… how long before the

turnstile. I remember the turnstile.

Before Christmas. Before the sound

of imaginary lovers and hot chocolate

and skis. I remember the lawn in summer.

I remember the cicadas. How can you write a poem,

upon promised prayers and forgotten anniversaries.

Upon of a thousand days until a day is left and shared.

And one less day. What is there to say?

What is there. I remember only the turnstile and the promised

something, something. So let’s write poems about tomorrow

and today. I have a cat that plays upon… I will work on it.