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by Patrick Meeds I am on the brink of combustion. I have been stockpiling matches for years. Waiting for the moment when the snowmelt recedes. When roots are exposed and meadows bloom. I have been practicing for fifty years and I've only just started to figure out how to play through these chord changes and not just on top of them. Please don't distract me. It is easy to get distracted when I am counting my matches. When I am on the brink of combustion. I am old now and my hands remember how to do some things but have forgotten so many others. Like holding the string of a kite or manipulating the levers and dials of a complex machine. Inside of most words is another word just waiting to be revealed. Do you understand? That is how this feels. Want to comment on this story? Click Here to go the Literary Review Discussion Forum (for the subject, enter "Comment on story Good Bones") |