digital photoart: ralph murre
ALL THE DAYS ARE
by Ronald Baatz
All the days are cold and short
like rows and rows of possum teeth.
The house is empty, even the
mountain air refuses to come in,
afraid of the stillness.
I can sit at the kitchen table for hours.
Its white paint may be chipping
but the large vein running through
the middle of my forehead is firm.
I feel it at my fingertips as I
work on a crossword puzzle
having no squares.
It’s good to know
a pack of hunting dogs
was once baffled by
the stream out back.