Simple Comfort

by Tracy Rice Weber

After the appointment I look up the word
because there are loop-holes I might find to

create an escape hatch from misunderstanding; but              
dictionary definitions won’t lie

even when I am desperate
for the good omen

God and Webster might provide.
How does pervasive stack blocks against time?

Isn’t he alphabet singing earlier than most
just as his brother did? What

kind of grief can ease the headwind they say
language will bring?  Small miracle,

metric feet have walked us this far.
Now we begin again—a rebirth

of sorts. The pieces scattered, jigsaw
puzzles don’t come easily.

Questions should come with answer keys.
Remind me again how lucky we are.

Say developmental disorder with a full, clear
throat.  Mention the ticker tape parade

under which we all march, wondering in
vain whether we might be spared.  It could be

worse they say, assuming divine insight could take
x-rays of the fracture, conjure logical formulas before I

yaw toward a calculus of changed values thinking
zero plus anything would have to be enough.

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