--- P A T R I C K   K E L L Y

                ...all poets love dust and mist because 
                      all the last answers go running back to dust and mist.
				--Carl Sandburg 	

There are no answers for you here because there
are no answers for anyone, only contrivances,
only frustrations. I am one of them.
If I look down through my new glasses
the floor seems far away.
My feet curve at the edge of the lenses,
an illusion I hope goes away.
I have been on my feet all day long.
My feet hurt. The arches are flat,
therefore no longer arches.
I don't know how long I can hold up
without arches, without support.
If I were a bridge I would want to be
a suspension bridge. If I were a church
I would want to be a cathedral
with flying buttresses.
Flying buttresses are curiously named,
extending arm-like to provide support,
not flying nor flapping, just steady.
I am crumbling. I don't hate you
nearly as much as I hate myself. 
If you stop crying I might stop sulking.
I woke up early to watch you sleep
but you were awake before me again.
If I had enough money I would buy
those special shoes that help your arches.
My arches. It doesn't work because
it can never work. That is my answer
but it is no real answer. Have I ever
been involved in anything that does work?
There is a cathedral in Spain that's
been half built since the 1890's
so get off my back for ten minutes.