Something has changed. Always, things change, not seem to
Nor feel like, but do, change.  In this grasp of feeling that, no those,
Changes, there are questions that come, come with it that mean so
Much today and mean so little when the thinking is changed again.

Each day there are so many things that remain the same, only to change.
The wind, the weather, the sunlight rips across the sky, making life hot,
Only to be replaced by the rains and the torrent of falling from the sky,
With winds blowing birds, people, white papers and blue.

The sun sets at five thirty today, five thirty two tomorrow, and it
Comes up on the like, but never the same schedule, and each
Minute, though sixty seconds of time, seems different and changing,
Minutes adding up to hours, hours adding up to days, never the same.

The food that is eaten, the touch of romance, the hatred of feeling,
The time of solace, and prayer, or thinking that makes each one
Feel they want to be a part, of this ever-changing world that makes
The solid one snap and break, the weak one be strong, the heart, beats on.

Cold plasters blast on bare skin, feeling their way along,
Finding the difference in write and wrong and right, can
All lay forth with terrible meaning, across words type on the pages
So well, each checked for spelling each checked for use
Each used in disregard of the meaning, or the thinking, of it all
As it lays there, being so resplendent in its throw and touch.
Feel it words, each one losing shape before the last one, each
one taking the grasp of the situation at hand
Making it all look and smell and be so very wrong.
Sleeves too long, then too short, or paper thin in their
Covering, making the rain of the tile feel wet as down
From a droning pillow, all pasted about that face
And its mouth, and soul.

With pleasure comes the grasp of Time's remarkable hands,
As they surround us with their touch and feeling and warmth,
Grasp us in their skin, wrinkled and old, some broken and tender
To those of us that have a feeling on the inside. They are cold and broken
To the ones whose souls have already served their time, and have died
Alive, to be something no one wants, no one needs, no one will have.

Music. Listening as my feet are on the pavement,
Avoiding small rocks, and cracks in the street
Trying to see past the cars, and the wind, and the
Leaves that line the walk, with music in my ears
Playing the songs, no my songs, one by one, as I walk.

The wind is extra cool, no its cold, across my face, and
This sweatshirt, and sweatpants cut out some of the
Coolness, as they sing in my head, beautiful songs
Some of them classic in tone, others classic for being
The rest in their own flush way, music to walk too today.

Air beats in from the lake, bringing goose-flesh to the neck
While upward steps, both long and challenging, beat down
The legs, and muscles made by this beating have strengthened
And even though no one cares to look, the legs have grown
Strenuous in their tender job of carrying this body along.

But the music, the anthems of song, the generous feelings
The women who take everything from man and make him cry
The bottle, the drive, the choices, all add up, and the singers
Each one driving the sympathies of days past, and of nights spent late
In the way only they can, no it must be could; for they all now are gone.

I would not see it become so sad,
or feel it all run into a mire of rejection,
nor could I admit disappointment,
lost in this feeling of being, around so
many people, and being so completely alone.

It is there
      all those things
           they said would come
                  have entered and found us,
                         hovering here waiting on them,
                                seeing them for the first time, in here
                                      making the rest of it seem so simple, so
                                              mislaid, so finding of the feeling wrong.

Watch out carefully for those you see around you, and keep it there,
to feel as though the ones who look and see are generally not looking
or seeing, but rather, that is their blank look. The ones that seem to
be looking away, keeping down their glances, always tucking
that chin softly down, and looking at the table, they are not the ones
you should be worried about either.

For they are looking their ways from the aspect that no one sees their look,
no one sees them. If you are being careful, watching the people around, looking
at their faces, and eyes, and seeing them be there, together with you.

Then, and only then, will you notice the bearded man; the gray beard
with the gray, half haired head, the balding man, that seems not to pay attention,
who seems to be outside the circle, without looking around himself
caught up in his own distractions, feeling the inside of his mind.

His age spots bring forth knowledge and intellect, that grabs one
and makes them completely whole within, then that is the one,
that is the person, the feeling, the driven one, you must watch out for
because,  before you know it, he'll have you, in his mind.