the fog made us
less visible and we liked it 
in the distance 

an organ was crashing

we lost our manners

a bedside voice whispering 

will you want to stay

on the earth? tell us

though we are scared you will leave us

tell us please

so we know your true



My funny bone is not funny anymore. It hurts. When i strike it. These incidents, once funny-by-accident, are now just plain accidents.

My funny bone is an accident waiting to happen. I got it insured through the my friend, the organ grinder, over at pick-and-pull boneyard, at the corner of elbow and knee streets.