Middle Age At Forty-five, What

We Feel The Machine Slipping From Our Hands As If Someone Else Were Steering; If We See Light At The End Of The Tunnel, It's The Light Of The Oncoming Train.

Life Begins To Happen. My Hoppped Up Husband Drops His Home Disputes, And Hits The Streets To Cruise For Prostitutes

Those Blessed Structures, Plot And Rhyme-- Why Are They No Help To Me Now I Want To Make Something Imagined, Not Recalled?

It's The Light Of The Oncoming Train.

Sometimes Nothing Is So Solid To Me As Writing - I Suppose That's What A Vocation Means - At Times A Torment, A Bad Conscience, But All In All, Purpose And Direction.