A-running all around about, aright
in one thing: in adventure most adhered,
but only one kind of it, all a-fright
of one that walked not adrenaline-steered.
And then the world stopped turning when I prayed,
and asked for solace, and was told to stop—
to take a metered step, after I’d stayed,
after I’d let the adrenaline drop.
Now running only when I thought it meet,
adhered to an adventure cured with calm;
but still prepared adrenaline a seat
for when a little more might be a balm.
But opposite was better than the first:
a-running always is not best, but worst.
~~~
You worked on your book while I poetried,
you turned a page while I was counting lines,
we danced motionless, fully rhapsodied
in cozy sweet sedentary confines.
I looked up at you, reading with a frown,
but saw a face more lovely than a smile,
for though your lips were steadfastly turned down,
I smiled enough to hold yours for awhile.
You might have looked at me, too—I’d not know,
not buried in my poetry as such.
I hope you did. It would be quite a show:
two mismatched admirers in an arm’s touch.
But all that warmth was better than a kiss—
it’s nights like that, not passions, that I’d miss.