take me out.

knock me over the head with a baseball bat and drag my unconscious form

beneath the shadowed wall. into a wardrobe. a hobbit hole.

wherever you can think to put me, do so. i want out.

i want to make my mark

I go through weeks like I do sheets of paper, or hair ties, or poems. 

I use them all up but I can't remember what I wrote. 

Years are like that too. Someone asks what I did last Monday 

The East Wind is a rabbi in a darkened shul. He sits pored over the Torah scroll long into the night, his back bent like a cane. People come and go and come again, whispering prayers for the needy, the hungry, the sick.