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I called her Ms. Rush and all I was seeing of her these days,
was her back rushing through doors emotions a splay.
She was just rushing everything, rushing through life without wings.
How could someone like a life like that, rush, rush, rush, a real mad hat.
Could Ms. Rush feel the cool breeze in the early morning, just after dawn?
All nature in a mood of sleepy yawning.
Rush, rush, rush out the door early morning.
Rush, rush, rush out the afternoon.
Rush, rush, rush out the evening.
Not even a pause to garden seasoning.
Even when her body was still, her mind in rapid reasoning.
I wondered what all the rush was about, river rushes waving to and fro about.
Going nowhere fast but that was the nature of rushes.
Could Ms. Rush see relations colliding crushes!
A constant flurry of blouses and brushes but no blushes.
I had long ago mastered hush over rush.
It was my peace, full and free without lease.
The rush, rush, rush whipped off the leash.
I dreamed of a beach deliberately disremembering things leached,
preferring a canvas bleached.
Rush, rush, rush and Ms. Rush, I saw her back again, gone out of reach.
CI-452142742 Knight Truelove poems