Wandering lonely atop a cloud
I fell into a turvy.
A cart pulled by three dappled horses –
one named Topsy
one called Heat
and the last one Miss Cool –
passed me by, the iron wheels
churning up a mist of dust.
So here I am,
in the mid-stride of my age
all upside down in love.
One day her smile is like a quilt
cozy warm to slip under;
the next day the grin askew
with lust and discontent
sends me into the spin of the tail.
What to do when held by such a spell,
with all those years behind me
and none to speak of up ahead?
I call her on the phone
and my heart catches and rings
with each brief bleat of sound.
Her voice trills in the receiver,
and I’m lost
again to be found. Barry Wallenstein