is it still a mind
if it gropes to only find
its journal a mere folding rind
with scarred, frayed leaves
and redacted lines?
even mansions a’times lose their eaves
but is it still a mind?
is it still grief
say the knowing was but brief
or the loss much needed relief
(not from cheeks kissed
but much-dreaded ifs)?
even old, cancered pitbulls are long missed
but is it still grief?
is it still friendship
when tensions only heap
after perfunctory makeups cheap
before jostling
for control to keep?
even the best of us do some bottling
but is it still friendship?
is it still love,
if push rots on to shove
-constant lows you didn’t dream of
their worst bitter
poured out in your trough?
even seasoned soldiers sometimes jitter
but is it still love?
