A tumbled skeleton:

A Penance to my Yarmulke on a Shabbat Not Celebrated

We’ve careened off path enough to know senses
remove the screen of mystic wax and match, the pulse
at the dusk of another home.

(Ritual has gone and packed up and traveled.)

You savor the first night more for pleasure, and
set the braided bread on the glass table,
our last. Novices never consider cheating the
meal when a fragile wine tumbler, falls.

I reason alone, I let out breath to sigh,
heave the worry, and race flames when you leave,
and smile, self-assured.

* * *

Here’s Elizabeth’s proffered skeleton.

A ____ to my ________ on a _____ ________ _____

We’ve ____ ____ ________ enough ___ __ __
____ the ___ of ____ ____ and ____, the _____
at the ____ of ____ ____.

(________ has _____ and ____ and _____.)

You _____ the __ _____ ___ for __, and
_________ the _____ _____ on the _____ __
our ___. ___ never ________ _____ the
_____ when _ ____ __ ____, _______.

I ____ ____ I _____ _____ ___ to ____
___ the _____, and _____ __ when _ ____,
and ____-_____.

* * *

And a nod to Carolee’s prompt at Read Write Poem about wearing different hats. (My husband brought me a beautiful kippah from Jerusalem. I don’t use it. I sometimes wish I did.)

* * *

I’m still writing poetry every day. Most of the poems suck big time. :^}