Buckled

At first,

I thought

I might be

Hooked,

The daily catch.

In the pictures

She is beauty,

Black and white

And ample in the lovely places.

Here in flesh,

Her hand is shaky,

Lips are speaking silently

A little spooky.

At our table

She is warning

We all are dying slowly 

From the plastic

While all our medicines

Are toxic,

Making us too sick.

At times,

The pills won't let her eat

For weeks on end.

Her eyes are doves from Noah's ark.

They find no place to light.

They only flit.

I see too clearly

She is frightened,

Losing tread.

I hold her arm and watch her,

Disembodied angel

Unable to touch or to tell her,

Another lost spiritual lover

Passing directly through her.

She is not quite solid any longer.

- 9/8/25