I am not a poker player,
don't have the face for it . . .
or the memory.

I can gaze off in the distance though,
no matter how close it be.

Rain on leaves at night is a sacred sound.
When I am weary or I cannot find the words,
it becomes a prayer for me.

I was a runner back when commas still mattered,
and you could come back to find your prepositions
where you dropped them.

I am a walker now, knees be damned.
These are the days of second chances,
hours of nights,

rain on leaves.

What were you about to say?
I saw reluctance slope your shoulders.

I'm hoping my words
wrap around your wrist
at a pulse-point,
a miniature heart warming there.

For every expression we lose
in our ways, there are a thousand
stopped-up gestures just
under the skin.

There are words for this;
sometimes we can almost feel one
forming on the tongue,
some small good thing being born.