THESE DAYS

have been hard;
I've not felt
the poem
sexy,
or funny,
or biting;
I've not felt
much
of anything
except the slow
leak
of a tire
going bald
& traction-less.
I've not had
reason
to write
you
or anyone else
in this conversation
of ghosts.
Your eight hours
of oceans
& mountains
are too unfathomable
for me
to fathom
a requisite closeness
no matter
how many missives
you've sent.
There are still times
where the only thing
that will do
is touch
& even touch
has its own
danger.

But tonight
there was a picture
with a c'mere look
and a slap
against my
holding fast
to misery.
It made my fingers
find a way.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2016