Issue 4 – Kanter


Carol Kanter

If Ever I Retire

If ever I retire
I’ll wake each day, perk coffee—two cups, fresh—
for that early morning kick; look past the wobbled
surface mirror of oily black to depths
where colors lurk, bubble and bleed—hot red
to heavy violet; then grab two hours
of alone to search for patterns in the grounds
beneath, where truth lies full of patient power;
and I will gaze and scratch my musings down

and write on past them—brave, unsure—no matter
when or what the judging cuckoo squawks
(“too prosy/precious/murky/trite,” such chatter)
or how insistently the phone trips off
the message “beep.” I’ll keep angling the dark
inside, asking, “Who’s there nibbling at my heart?”