The Best I Can Do Poem by Roy Blokker

Opaque, hovering by
The window sill.
Light enters, vision stops.
A tickle forms,
An avalanche of sweat
Cascading from
Forehead onto glasses.
Blindness. Distortion.
Meaning loses meaning
As watch lights hunt
Asbestos ghosts.

The best I can do
Is spirit dance
Shoulder to shoulder
In the marathon.
Like Monarch butterflies
In transit bound
Tagged but not forgotten.
My corner of the world
Has sanity only on good days
And quiet nights.

The best I can do
Poor dead migrant butterfly
Who flew so far to the parking lot
Only two miles from the grove,
Is box you up and mail you back
To Toronto
And light a candle
To your spirit dance
And asbestos ghosts.