First Thought

Boy

Bright November light

Bob’s got ‘man flu’

The nights’ have drawn in

So everything we do is jagged

Defined by an impending night

The shifting scene

Hovers and skims

A patina that registers

On timorous eyes

And carries conscience

All woven and wrapped

As if it wouldn’t

Unravel and spill

To spread disappointment

On an uncharted day

Don’t sneeze

Bob’s on the mend