Here is a heel-scrape
of composite on tarmac –
it announces my approach –
punctuated by my stick’s click
of loosenings – of turned threads
on its retractable –
snappable –
black shaft –
And – by the way –
how can I hold you
with my love now limped
by other indiscretions?
It is hard only in my gut –
enough to be sick
because of turning thoughts –
of you opened up –
and me still limping