Do not bother counting sheep.
Endlessly they jump the split log fence,
sidle the one-by-one stile, bleat appeals
to Sandman, but do not channel sleep.
Every now and then a black one shows up.
Which pleases the liberal in you,
reminds how once upon a time Way-Out
set you apart.
Count instead the growing number
of cared-fors you have lost.
Order your list by alphabet or by chronology
so as not to skip a single missing soul.
Picture them ensconced in an Eden
each might choose–
forest or soccer field, casino, or art studio
but always scented by a garden
Of memories–complete with weeds
and sufficient mystery to spark
continued curiosity,
with holograms of their few special loves.
Give the nod
to the precise riches, begot, bestowed,
that no one else amassed,
how they all earned rights of recall.
