Restored Edit: Undo Typing

I am slathered in comfort

waxed shaker board, clean

Reclaimed, solid and handcrafted

from 100-year-old wood

salvaged, history maintained

somewhere across a far

hidden border

.

My life is perfect

Count blessings lined on wire

every commute along no

extended route

Sky, twenty-four, cloudless

subtracted by evening.

I drip comfort

from the side of a lot

streets paved flat, uniformed

substitute shadows overwhelmed by lights

around each corner

.

I’m battered in comfort

Whipped up, posted pretty

state of the art monitoring

patrolled byways

20’ drop fan spinning rhythmic

disturbance free hardware

breeze scratching the skin

of an apple, plucked

from manicured orchards.

I drizzle the juice

of comfort into tea cups, bowed

pledged in servitude.

But, underneath, throughout,

a deep pain runs about

wild, untethered

howling

meaning from verse

to reveal this kind of

comfort in grief.

.

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