Superpower

Blow the dust off memory of words long unused
Be honest, if only in the night of quiet
Where ragged breathing echoes in heated touch.

Feel your way through the dark
Who is the counselor to the therapist?
What dark queen of the dead counsels me?

Gray night haunts the living, echoing in anxiety and bitterness
As I seek to comfort the lost when they cannot buy sustenance
And avoid the landlord; no quarters under the cushion.

The world turned upside down, gone crazy, lurching from chaos to crisis
Yet delicate blossoms of pink mock the eerie cry of children at midday
And the clean sands of deserted beaches.

I reach and amid the rubble of memory
Words pour out, not mine, but good
And once again I feel humbled by the call.