Soul and satisfaction
By Paul Turner
Through the years the chasm,
Its walls slick and retracting,
Half of my origins were unknown, yet assumed real
In not so private moments
My soul, tissues stretched and stapled back,
Gibbered at this meandering world
Newspaper advertisements
Genealogical gambits
Ancient cave-dwelling ancestors and am roiling again
No thread confirmed: who’s who at any slippery moment
Nothing budging for thirty-four years
And then into the echoless void, detection
And sweet verification,
And our phone call, the long ride north and west
And then, the living, alive you!
