churning
alone, here
at the country coffee shop
so far outta town, that everybody's local
except, maybe, for me
never local, never known, never home
i am waltzing
down corridors of memory-
kicking up dust-piles of days
forgotten,
peering into corners
questioning cracks and crevices,
cause some crazy-coyote-counselor lady
told me
to start digging
turning away
from shadows, from self
has kept my red-shoes tapping
has kept time to rhythms of pain and patterning
pushing away
all that is too pitiful
too poor and lonely
too vulnerable
to bare
to bear
in the glaring light of day
so, today
hand me a shovel,
a trowel,
high boots and pen,
and let the
digging dance
begin..
