The life manual opens its pages,
settles upon my conscience,
which should have been called shoulders
for it has had to shrug too often.
I’d rather rest a musician’s hand
than lay down any fretful writing,
and play a strain for lost friends,
footpath’s warmed, chill nights
peering at invitations next to sidedoors,
if only I’d knocked and entered;
times they entertained without me.
I’d like to let the yellow index page,
thumbed over one too many times,
the odd tear midway in sober stains,
show a score I could relinquish,
but I keep them all for now.
A footnote reveals, so I can remember
I possesed atleast a few good ideals.
Yearly the chapters grow in scope,
lines I can bear to rebind in this scrapbook,
but the materials available, they scatter
the clutched beliefs as far as the doubts.
