Flows of affection

remind me that sects from

my old, black religion

will stagnate the stipulation

that figure the fate from

reckoning what might take from

the sectioning off late-ones

and their addictions learn from,

while love lies in the old

halls that roller-skaters recall,

peacefully with roller-wheels

that with their thoughts, like mine, skate round and round,

I fall back and relax

on Father O'Callahan's flat, but

beloved mound hacked into the ground for his dear, old dog Max,

who played and barked and frolicked 'til his

bark couldn't stand being tied within

as maybe Father wished he

had been the master to spend more time...with him,

maybe not unlike mine, maybe now is the time

to forgive those whose ryhmes

never made any sense

or time....

copyright 2008 Rose Loya